


A Modest Proposal

by Ignaz Wisdom (ignaz)



Series: A Modest Proposal and Involuntary Commitment [1]
Category: House M.D.
Genre: Angst, Fake Marriage, First Time, Humor, Legal Drama, M/M, Romance, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-03-20
Updated: 2008-09-18
Packaged: 2017-10-01 23:50:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 22
Words: 55,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ignaz/pseuds/Ignaz%20Wisdom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tritter's case against House still depends on subpoenaed testimony from Wilson. To save House from losing everything, the doctors of PPTH decide on an unusual solution, which in turn leads to unexpected consequences. This is a story about the sacrifices we make that turn out not to be such great sacrifices after all.  (Contains spoilers for everything up to and including "Merry Little Christmas.")</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I Knew That Cleavage Was a Smokescreen

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Français available: [Une modeste proposition](https://archiveofourown.org/works/247773) by [Chrodechild](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chrodechild/pseuds/Chrodechild)
  * Translation into 中文 available: [一次高贵的求婚/A Modest Proposal](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6726088) by [Maebh_Chan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maebh_Chan/pseuds/Maebh_Chan)



> I didn't like the way the Tritter arc was going. This is an alternative ending, or one other way to resolve some of the issues Shore et al brought up and then promptly ignored. The story is set the morning after "Merry Little Christmas"; in this universe, nothing from "Words and Deeds" or any other 2007 episodes has happened. Also, please don't take any of the following as legal fact; there's a reason it's fan_fiction_. :) Finally, if you prefer to read in a single off-site HTML file, without having to click through links, this story is available [at my website](http://ignaz.betweenthepages.org/amodestproposal.html).
> 
> Thanks: to the fine state of New Jersey, without which this story would never have even begun to exist. Muchas, muchas gracias to the five fabulous beta readers who bravely volunteered to tackle this monster: karaokegal, thesamefire, elva_barr, the_antichris, and nos4a2no9. These guys were amazing. They each gave this story multiple read-throughs, offered fantastic suggestions, and kept me from throwing in the towel too soon. Any remaining mistakes are a result of my own stubborn refusal to accept sound advice.
> 
> This story has been translated into [French](http://archiveofourown.org/works/247773/chapters/382505) by [Chrodechild](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Chrodechild/pseuds/Chrodechild) and into [Russian](http://www.snapetales.com/index.php?fic_id=7043) by [Fly](http://luciferry.livejournal.com/profile).

"I talked to Stacy," Cuddy said from behind her desk, in the pissiest of her arsenal of pissed-off voices. The evil glint in her eye was aimed directly at House. "She thinks the two of you should get married."

House cocked his head and pretended to consider the idea. "Well, I'd be okay with that. Her husband might not be, though --"

"Stacy thinks _what_?" Wilson spluttered.

"-- but really, it's fine, as long as Mark sleeps in another room. Nothing personal, I'm just not that good at sharing the covers."

By late morning, Cuddy's initial reaction to the news of the stolen pills and the disappearing deal had died to a low, sinister rumble. Having collected his severed testicles, and with a fresh dose of Vicodin in his system, House was nearly back to his normal -- if somewhat subdued -- self.

The new supply of Vicodin was courtesy of Wilson, who couldn't have looked more tragically unwilling to hand over the prescription bottle that morning in his hotel room. After crashing back into consciousness on his floor with his best friend's disappointed face above him -- and after losing the deal -- House could think of nothing else but finding Wilson, a need so desperate and instinctual that it scared him. When Wilson opened his door in the pre-dawn hours of Christmas morning and let House inside, the relief had been almost overwhelming.

Of course, House would never tell Wilson that. He had trouble even admitting it to himself.

There were few things in life that House found difficult. Topping the short list were climbing stairs, giving a rat's ass about people, and apologizing. Last night, Wilson had sat House down in a chair in the hotel room and let him apologize until his throat hurt -- for stealing Wilson's pad in the first place, for not supporting Wilson when Tritter took his car and his money and his whole damn practice, for never listening and for refusing to accept Wilson's first attempt to get them all out of this mess.

House had actually meant it. He was sorry as hell that this was happening to them, in every way that it was possible to be sorry. Yet meaning the apology didn't make it any easier to say. Accepting that he had been wrong -- that he'd screwed up, probably more than he'd ever screwed up before -- was more of a sacrifice than he could have imagined. His pride had always surpassed his capacity for self-preservation.

Wilson had brought him a glass of water and made him take off his coat so he could unwrap the white bandages and examine the dark red gashes on House's arm. He had stared at the cuts and then stared at House's hand -- the same hand House had deliberately broken the last time he had been off Vicodin -- and then Wilson had cursed under his breath, reached into his pocket, and put a pill bottle in House's open palm.

"I'd rather have you go back to these than mutilating yourself," Wilson had explained, his voice rough, his face sick with despair. "Or killing yourself with oxycodone. And I'd rather have you saving people's lives than sitting around the hospital, coming up with even more ways to screw yourself over."

That was the last time Wilson had mentioned the stolen oxy or the overdose, but he still occasionally looked at House with wounded eyes. Not that Wilson didn't have every excuse to be hurt and resentful. He had betrayed House, yes, but not without good reason. House hadn't just stolen Wilson's pad and forged his name to a few scripts -- and really, Wilson could have justifiably been a lot angrier about that stunt -- but he'd also forced Wilson to be the one whose testimony would be the final nail in House's coffin.

"She was kidding," Cuddy assured Wilson, jarring House from his reverie. "Keep your pants on."

"But I'm pretty sure 'pants off' is part of the marriage deal," House said, unable to resist. "Of course, in Wilson's case --"

"She thinks this is funny?" Wilson's face was frozen in shock. "We could lose our licenses over this! We could both end up in jail!"

"But you're not going to, are you?" Cuddy asked, leveling a lethal stare at both of them. She hadn't made it to her position by wearing kid gloves, and when she wanted to pour on the authority, it could be thick as syrup. House had to admit that Cuddy's ball-busting skills were pretty cool to watch when he wasn't on the receiving end. Her eyes bored into both House and Wilson, making it clear that there was absolutely no possibility of any of this going the wrong way for her or for them.

"Although it would be a lot easier if they couldn't force you to testify against him," she said, addressing Wilson. "Unfortunately, the only way around that is a marriage license, and frankly, House, I just don't think you have the figure for a white gown."

"I'd only divorce him and drain him for alimony, anyway. Seriously, everyone's doing it. Ask any of his ex-wives --"

Wilson's glare could have shrunk his patients' tumors at twenty paces. Come to think of it, Wilson was pretty good at ball-busting himself.

"I'm delighted that my marital failures are still able to provide you with plenty of fodder for jokes," he snarled. He stepped between House and Cuddy's desk, taking up her entire line of view. "What do you mean, a marriage license?" He sounded disturbed at the very word, as if Cuddy had suggested that the best way out of their dilemma was covering themselves in leeches. House wondered whether he should be offended.

Cuddy shrugged. "She just said that it was a shame you guys only _fight_ like an old married couple. Legally, married couples can't be forced to testify against one another. In the future, House, when you insist on stealing another doctor's prescription pad, do me a favor: marry her first."

"Next time, I'll make sure to steal from one of the lovely lady doctors in my life," House promised, giving Cuddy a predatory look.

"You do that," Cuddy said in a dismissive tone. "In the meantime, I'm sure there are lawyers right here in town whose marriages you _haven't_ tried to break up who can give you a second opinion. In fact, I'm almost certain that I sent you to just such a lawyer last week. You do remember your lawyer, don't you, House?"

House remembered his lawyer. Not that the lawyer was a bad guy -- by lawyer standards, he was actually okay. Unfortunately, he just hadn't been all that great at giving House good news.

Wilson leaned slightly in House's direction. "That would be the four hundred dollar butt plug, in case you forgot," he supplied.

"Four-fifty, with a five grand retainer," House muttered darkly.

"I don't care what kind of toys you want to spend five grand on, House, but try to set some cash aside for the lawyer, too," Cuddy said. "Go talk to Howard."

"But I --"

"Go talk to Howard!"

They went to talk to Howard.


	2. A Four Hundred Dollar Butt Plug

"Speeding," Howard recited, "DUI, reckless driving, resisting arrest, possession of a Schedule II drug, possession with intent to traffic, forgery of the third degree, and ... disorderly conduct?"

"Surely not," Wilson protested, as insincerely as he could get away with. House, for his part, stared sheepishly at the expensive carpet in Howard's office, having apparently heard some version of this litany before.

"You know, most of my clients get charges dropped after the incident, not added," Howard said patiently as he finished his pacing and took a seat on the other side of the desk.

"Dr. House is renowned for his skill at defying the odds in the worst possible ways," Wilson explained.

He knew he should have been angry, but he was too tired for anger and too well-trained in suppressing it. Last night's nightmare had drained him of every recognizable emotion. For three seconds after finding House on the floor of his apartment -- the longest three seconds of James Wilson's life -- he'd known with a bone-deep certainty that House was dead. From irritation at House's refusal to pick up the phone to throat-clutching, stomach-dropping terror in half a second -- if Wilson had been a few years older, it would have been a great beginning for a heart attack. It was impossible for him to understand the kind of pain House's leg caused him on an daily basis, but he imagined that finding House's body twisted up on the living room floor felt roughly the same.

But not even the agony of those three seconds could hold a candle to the seconds, minutes, and hours after. First came the relief at finding House breathing and conscious, the kind of relief that had him saying a silent prayer of gratitude to any gods that might be listening. Finding the whiskey and the empty pill bottle ... Wilson wasn't sure he knew a word for that feeling. And he doubted there was any word at all for what it felt like to stand up, let the empty bottle fall from his hand, and walk out the door. He'd known that House would be fine -- physically fine, at least. What Wilson hadn't known was what _he_ would do if he stayed there any longer. He'd walked out of the apartment as if in a dream -- dazed, blinking against the sparks of light reflected by the snow.

He had returned to his empty hotel room and lain fully dressed on top of the bed, which was still made from the previous morning, trying his damnedest not to think about anything. Maybe he should have swiped some pills from Zebalusky for himself. He had his car and his bank accounts and his practice back, but now he seemed to be short one best friend. Every time he closed his eyes, his mind instantly rewound to the moment when he'd opened the door to House's apartment.

That is, until House himself knocked on the hotel room door.

He barely heard the first knock, and didn't move until the second. He checked the peephole before opening it. Unannounced visits from Tritter had made it a habit.

Even small and distorted through the hole in the door, House had looked like shit. Wilson pressed his forehead against the cool surface of the door. He'd seen House in more states of disarray than anyone, but he'd never seen him like that: the walking dead. And House had actually _been_ dead, or close to it, more times than most people Wilson knew, so that was really something. Worse yet was the fact that House hadn't just looked dead -- he had looked as though _dead_ was exactly what he wanted to be.

That was when Wilson heard about Tritter taking the deal away. House had been slumped in front of him, still avoiding Wilson's eyes, rubbing his thigh, face ragged with pain -- and Wilson had felt nothing but grief. Just as his lawyer had said, House was going to jail. Wilson was going to be forced to put him there.

House had lowered his eyes and apologized for everything in a voice so soft Wilson had to lean forward to catch the words. Then Wilson had reached out, cautiously, and put his hand on House's knee, a gesture that startled them both.

House had finally looked up at him with dull gray eyes. Wilson didn't touch House, except in medical contexts, and House never touched anyone if he could help it. The simple placement of hand on knee was very nearly the most intimate contact the two of them had ever had.

Wilson didn't want to think about how pathetic that was, that the most physical contact he'd ever had with his best friend was a brush of shoulders while walking, checking his vitals last night on House's floor, and that sad, strained moment. In a better mood, House would probably have made a crack about how their never touching drove Wilson to seek physical relationships with every female around him.

Wilson definitely didn't want to think about _that_.

Howard sighed and looked at House with a pained expression. "I'm going to have my work cut out for me, aren't I?

"At four-fifty an hour, you _should_ have your work cut out for you."

"At four-fifty an hour, it might be best if we got right down to business and didn't waste time bickering over my fees," Howard pointed out. "I need you to be honest with me. Did Dr. Wilson write these prescriptions?"

House closed his eyes briefly, and then shot Wilson a look of barely disguised guilt. "Most of them."

"But not all of them. Did you forge his name for the remainder?"

"Does it still count as forgery if you make absolutely no attempt to imitate the person's handwriting?"

Howard's patient stare didn't waver. It occurred to Wilson that he liked House's lawyer.

"Yeah, I forged his name," House admitted.

Howard smiled thinly. "I told you last time that a plea bargain would be the easiest way to make this disappear. Unfortunately, it appears that a plea bargain is out of the question at this point. The DA wants to go to trial. This prescription forgery charge, combined with the intent to traffic -- those are some very serious criminal charges."

"I never had any intent to traffic," House said. "That's ridiculous."

"I know that, and you know that," Howard answered, "but the things you and I know are only going to be worth so much in the court room. Even if the DA can't prove that you intended to sell those drugs, he could still get you on the forged prescriptions."

Wilson watched House very closely. He didn't possess House's uncanny ability to look at a person and instantly pick up on the innermost workings of their minds, but he'd known House for a long time and had learned to read him with a fair degree of accuracy. Although House had taken another Vicodin before arriving at the lawyer's office, Wilson could tell from the way he carried himself and from the way he now sat that he was still in pain. But it wasn't just House's leg that was hurting. It would have been barely perceptible to anyone else -- even to another doctor -- but Wilson could tell that House's shoulder was bothering him again, too.

He'd given House a new prescription. The deal was gone for good and House was still in pain -- what else could he have done? He had handed the bottle over, watched House swallow one dry, and then closed his eyes. "They're going to kill you one of these days," he had said.

"Better pills than pain."

The deal with Tritter, the detoxing, even House's eventual willingness to go into rehab -- it had all been for nothing. And here they were, back at the beginning: House on the drugs; Wilson enabling. House destroying himself; Wilson assisting.

Wilson turned to Howard. "So what happens next?"

"Dr. House will be issued a summons to appear in court. There will be a formal arraignment, at which he'll enter his plea. The judge can probably be convinced to dismiss or downgrade the intent to traffic charge. But the forgeries ..." Howard looked sharply at House, but his voice was even. "You need to understand. You obtained an opiate illegally. There is very little leeway around that. Dr. Wilson's testimony will be included in the trial, and it is not going to look good for you."

Wilson glanced over at House, whose face had gone unnaturally blank and unreadable. He looked back at Howard and nervously asked, "What if I don't testify?"

Howard's smile was tight. "You've already testified, Dr. Wilson. Your statement to Detective Tritter will be admitted whether you go on the stand or not. They'll want you up there, of course, because it looks better for them -- and you'll want to be there, too, because if you don't, they're going to subpoena you."

House spoke up. "Tritter said they didn't need Wilson anymore," he said, sounding uncertain.

"Oh, they still need Wilson," Howard said. "They can't convict you for signing out pills for a recently deceased patient. It's circumstantial -- too much room for reasonable doubt. You could have been doing Dr. Wilson a favor by picking them up, not realizing the patient had already died. They'll need more than that for a guilty verdict."

It was hardly a revelation, but hearing it from a lawyer -- from a lawyer who was on their side, even -- made the lump of fear inside him grow heavier. "There's nothing we can do?" Wilson asked.

Howard sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "I'll do what I can to get the charges downgraded. Your leg," he said, gesturing at House, "that's a mitigating factor. The sympathy vote might count for something. The fact that you're a doctor -- well, that could go either way."

With a show of finality, Howard closed the file on the desk in front of him and pushed his chair back. "You have a long road ahead of you, gentlemen," he said, standing. "But I'll do everything I can."

The air felt like quicksand around him. Wilson had been certain that the lawyer would be able to give them some way out -- some way to make the nightmare of the last few weeks disappear. He'd never expected that Howard's assessment of the situation would be this grim. The possibility that House could lose his license and end up in prison had always been there, but it had never seemed more real.

Wilson stood up anyway, reaching across the desk to shake Howard's hand. "Thank you," he said, and behind him, he heard House snort.

"Say hello to Dr. Cuddy for me," Howard said as the two of them headed for the door. "Oh," he suddenly chuckled, "and tell her that I got her message: the marriage idea was _very_ funny. My hat's off to whoever thought of that."

Appreciative laughter followed Wilson as he quickly ushered House out the door.


	3. Fight with the Wife

"Twenty-two-year-old female," House began later that afternoon, limping into the conference area with a case file under his arm, "presenting with --"

"So, we hear you're getting married," Chase said.

If news traveled fast in the glorified high school that was Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital, gossip and mockery traveled faster. House had spent half his time at the hospital that day deflecting questions about the cuts on his arm -- for which he'd have to thank Cameron's big mouth, of course -- and word had clearly gotten around that Tritter's deal had been withdrawn. The only bit of House news that wasn't in circulation was the Christmas Eve overdose. Wilson, to his credit, had kept that particular gem of humiliation to himself. House wasn't even sure if Cuddy knew.

Aside from the fact that he'd been found on the floor in his own puke, his personal business was common knowledge throughout the hospital. That Cuddy was now sharing the wit of Stacy Warner with his employees should have come as no surprise.

House met Chase's baleful stare. The tightness of his mouth and the vivid bruise on his jaw made the effect positively sinister. In the corner, Foreman rolled his eyes with enough gusto that his entire head rolled as well.

"Presenting with --" House continued, undaunted.

"What did your lawyer say this time?" Cameron asked.

"That I need to hire underlings with longer attention spans," House shot back. "Patient is female, twenty-two, presenting --"

"You can't just keep avoiding this!" It was Cameron again, with her typical overconcern.

"No," House admitted, tossing the file onto the table so it slid neatly across the surface until it came to a stop directly in front of Cameron, "but if I play my cards right, I can successfully avoid _you_. Cameron, do a lumbar puncture. Foreman, patient history. Chase, you're on breaking and entering duty."

He turned to go into his office, but it was only for show -- a few seconds to allow the players to take their positions. They were getting predictable. When he turned around at the connecting doorway, his team was exactly where he'd expected them to be: Chase had stood and grabbed his coat, Foreman had a clipboard in hand and was making his way towards the door, and Cameron was still sitting right where he'd left her, arms crossed at her chest and an look on her face that was half anger and half pity.

"Yes?" he asked, attempting to infuse the word with impatience.

Cameron finally stood, then walked across the room to hand him a slim white envelope. "This came for you today," she said quietly.

The envelope was unremarkable except for the return address: the New Jersey Superior Court. House kept his face deliberately impassive as he looked back at his team: Chase, so cold and indifferent that it had to be an act; Foreman, also trying for cold and indifferent and mostly failing; and Cameron, whose anger had morphed into full-blown sorrow.

House tossed the envelope in the air with forced levity and caught it again between his fingers. "Overdue parking ticket," he said lamely.

When nobody started moving again, he picked the nearest victim. "_Lumbar puncture_," he stressed, leaning towards Cameron as if she were slightly deaf. Before any of them could protest -- or worse, offer some sort of condolences -- he stepped into his office and shut the door behind him.

Someone had been there earlier. His desk had been graced with the January issue of _Modern Bride_. It occurred to him that the PPTH laugh mill had to have run pretty damn dry if Stacy's stupid joke could garner this much attention.

He dumped the magazine in his trash bin along with a pile of hospital paperwork and then tapped the ominous white envelope against the now clean surface of his desk. He considered not reading it, dropping it into the trash right behind the magazine, and wondered if he could get away with pretending he'd never received it. But that would mean enlisting his team in the conspiracy, and he was pretty sure Chase was permanently finished with lying for him. He ripped the envelope open quickly and removed its contents.

The summons was short and to the point: Dr. Gregory House was to appear before a judge in the New Jersey Superior Court in one week to address the formal charges presented against him. His lawyer could be present; if he could not afford a lawyer ... gradually, his attention waned. He'd seen enough episodes of _Law and Order_ to know how the rest went. He could practically hear the _doink-doink_.

Howard had said he'd do everything possible, and some impossible things, too, but he'd also made it clear that the situation was serious. House thought about his medical license. He was a little old to be making a career change. As he contemplated the possibilities of teaching full-time, and whether anyone other than Cuddy would hire him at this point, he realized that he was avoiding the much harsher reality of what might happen if he lost. He immediately derailed that train of thought, just as he had with so many others. Going to prison was a non-option.

House popped another pill while his mind drifted, as it frequently did, to Wilson. He'd been able to think of little else since coming awake that morning on his floor, certain he was dead, and finding his panic-stricken, sweaty-haired friend above him instead of an angel.

Wilson had told him, in Atlantic City, that House was a pathological relationship-killer, constantly pushing Wilson's friendship and loyalty to its limits. House had disregarded the remark at the time. Of course he didn't want to push Wilson away permanently. House could no more part with Wilson than he could have let Stacy cut off his leg.

But after the things House had done to Wilson recently, he had to wonder. Had he wanted to break their friendship without realizing it?

When his internal monologue started to sound like a classic Wilson lecture he stuffed the bottle of Vicodin in his jacket pocket and went to go find the man himself.

Wilson didn't look happy to see him, but Wilson didn't look happy about much these days. He waved a depressingly familiar white envelope at House as he limped into the office and shut the door.

"Another 'love note' from Tritter," Wilson explained, "only this one's by way of the DA's office." His brown eyes exuded misery; House was irritated by the reminder that Wilson wore misery quite well.

House dropped his chin. It was suddenly hard to meet Wilson's gaze, even with his somber mood making him look like something out of _GQ_. "What are you going to do?"

Wilson sighed. "I don't know. I was thinking about becoming a fugitive," he said wryly. "Maybe grow a beard, disappear somewhere in Montana."

House tried and failed to fight off a smile. They were mostly inevitable where Wilson was concerned. "You'd look revolting with a beard. You probably couldn't even grow one. I've seen you after a few days of not shaving. You look like a mangy animal."

"Well, there's always Mexico. Or Spain. Did we ever decide where Salma Hayek lives?"

House averted his eyes. "You know that refusing to testify won't get either of us anywhere. Like Perry Mason said -- they'll admit your testimony whether you're there or not." He looked up at Wilson, who was standing with his hands on his hips, expression fading speedily back to miserable. "You've already sacrificed enough for me. Testify."

Wilson just stood and looked at him for a long moment, long enough that House started to shift uncomfortably under the weight of Wilson's gaze. When Wilson spoke, the change of subject was jarring enough that House wasn't entirely sure he'd heard correctly.

"What did you think you were doing last night?"

House automatically began considering and rejecting a handful of smart-ass retorts. He settled on, "Getting into the Christmas spirit," which was still pretty obnoxious, but probably wouldn't result in Wilson giving up on him just yet.

"You took more than _seven times_ the recommended amount of pills. Did you even read the label? Or did you just start eating them like M&amp;Ms? And I assume you washed them down with the bourbon. Damn it, House," Wilson said, his voice rising, "what _was_ that?"

"It wasn't what you think," he muttered.

"Then explain it to me."

But House couldn't explain it. He couldn't even start. Maybe he'd be able to someday, when Wilson's fury and pain wasn't staring him right in the eye. There was something about Wilson in this mood that made him feel like he was suffocating.

"I'm sorry." It felt like he'd been saying that a lot lately, usually to Wilson. He wondered if it meant he was whipped.

"And what's _that_?" Wilson continued, gesturing vaguely.

"What's what?"

"Telling me not to testify because you're not worth it, or whatever you're trying to pull. This noble self-sacrificing crap. You don't want me to go up there and testify. You want me to fuck off to Montana or Mexico. You're still pissed about the deal I made. Did you want to punish me? Maybe kill yourself on Christmas Eve and let me find the body? Is that what you wanted?"

"I didn't want to kill myself," House snapped.

"No," Wilson agreed, his voice suffused with bitterness. "You just don't particularly care if you live, either."

If House had known of the scathing power of an angry Wilson, he might have saved himself the trouble of hacking at his arm. He pushed away from the wall he'd been leaning against and limped toward the door. "You have no idea what I want," he told Wilson as a parting shot, and as he left the office he thought _and neither do I_.


	4. Gold Star for Cameron

The hotel room seemed dramatically emptier without House in it, but Wilson reminded himself that he'd had just about all the House he could stand for forty-eight hours. He needed to detox.

Wilson had never been very good at solitude. He supposed it was one of the reasons he tended to leap into marriages before their stability and longevity could be assured. House had once accused him of "eating neediness," but that wasn't true: he was just eternally afraid of being alone.

Wilson worried about House being alone, as well. If he closed his eyes, he could still see House's body on the apartment floor -- but the memory was too fresh and too raw to speak of. He'd file it alongside the hundreds of other Things They Didn't Talk About. But even if very little else had been revealed in their earlier conversation in Wilson's office, he was at least certain that House wasn't in any more danger by his own hand for the time being.

The bigger picture, though, was still blurry. The escalating doses of Vicodin, the motorcycle, his increasingly insolent behavior towards patients, and now this debacle -- Wilson had no idea how long they had before House found himself back at that same edge again. And next time, House might not be able to hang on.

Finding House half-dead in his apartment had shaken Wilson to his very core. For the first time in the history of their friendship, he had to finally admit that he didn't understand House -- that maybe he never had. Wilson had been certain that taking the Vicodin away would bring House to his senses -- or, barring that, to his metaphorical knees, so he would give up the stubborn denials and do what was necessary to release all of them from Tritter's predatory grasp.

He could never have anticipated that House would take it so far, that his refusal to capitulate in any way would lead him to choose flirtation with death over surrender. How could Wilson have ever believed himself capable of predicting what House would do? It was clear to him now that House -- infarction, addiction, and all -- was a power he couldn't begin to comprehend.

He took advantage of the temporary lull to catch up on e-mails that had been neglected over the last several days. After sorting through the spam and other junk mail, one message in particular caught his attention. There was no subject line and it was dated from only a few hours earlier. Curious, he clicked on it.

_To: "James Wilson" (jwilson@ppth.org)  
From: "Allison Cameron" (acameron@ppth.org)  
Subject: [none]_

Message: http://travel2.nytimes.com/2006/10/21/nyregion/21gaymarriage.html

Wilson frowned deeply and, to his further irritation, felt his cheeks start to grow hot. It was a stupid, juvenile reaction. He knew that this wasn't the adult equivalent of being called a queer on the playground, and there was no way Cameron could suspect -- no. All Cameron knew was that House was in trouble, and being Cameron, she'd do or say anything to protect him. They weren't entirely dissimilar in that regard. Wilson sighed and reluctantly clicked the link.

_Legislators Vote for Gay Unions in N.J._

TRENTON, N.J. - New Jersey's governor signed legislation Thursday giving same-sex couples all the rights and responsibilities of marriage allowed under state law -- but not the title.

The legislation will make New Jersey the fourth state to offer some sort of legal protection to same-sex couples.

He was skimming over the less interesting parts when a line caught his eye: _The civil unions law grants gay couples adoption, inheritance, hospital visitation and medical decision-making rights and spousal immunity: the right not to testify against a partner in state court._

His stomach lurched. He blinked and read the sentence again, but it still said the same thing. It was what Stacy had been joking about, but if there had been any humor in the situation before, it was completely gone now.

_Spousal immunity._ It was a strange-looking term. Wilson smiled ironically to think that he could certainly use some immunity from his former spouses. It would do his bank account a lot of good.

House had his own brand of spousal immunity. Wilson couldn't picture him married to anyone. In the Stacy years, he'd tried to imagine House married, but Wilson had failed, as totally as House and Stacy's relationship eventually would, to conjure up any sort of mental image of House as someone's husband. House just didn't have it in him -- and he would probably have pointed out that Wilson had too much of it.

The article was short. Wilson finished it and deleted the e-mail without a response. He thought about shutting the computer down and going to bed, or getting dressed and going downstairs to the hotel lounge for a nightcap.

Instead, he went online and started searching for more details. It didn't have to mean anything. It was good to keep up on changes in state law. He steadfastly refused to examine his motives any further than that.

There were already several places online with usable information. Wilson found a brief list of the requirements a couple would have to meet to get a civil union license, alongside a list of the old requirements for a 'domestic partnership,' and discovered, with some distaste, that at least one of his marriages would never have been up to snuff. It struck him as deeply unfair that he'd been able to get married and divorced three separate times by the time he turned forty, while committed same-sex couples had had to deal with half-assed domestic partnership rights.

Not that his marriages had seemed anything less than committed from their respective starts -- at least to him. House had provided ceaseless diatribes about what terrible ideas they were, but he was obsessively cynical about all of Wilson's romantic prospects. He'd never liked anyone Wilson had dated. That was just House being House.

But Wilson had loved each of his wives -- he refused to dwell on how pathetic that was, to be able to say "each of his wives" -- or at least he'd been pretty sure he loved them. He'd done a lot to revise his definition of the term in the months since his latest separation. Love was -- commitment. Unflinching loyalty. Willingness to sacrifice. Three things he had to admit he'd never given his wives. Friendship -- well, there weren't many people with whom he shared that, and his wives had never come close.

He turned the computer off and left it on his desk, and then stripped down to his shorts and undershirt and lay back on the bed. It was good news, really -- he was proud of his state.

It wasn't that he was gay -- he was irrefutably not gay. He loved women, loved their long hair, their smooth skin, their supple breasts in his hands, their hips and curves and soft, wet places. He'd had three marriages and more affairs than he cared to remember to prove it. He hadn't really thought about men in ages, and he hadn't done anything about it since before his first marriage -- since med school. So he wasn't even close to being gay, not really. Or at least not _mostly_.

He suddenly became aware of the fact that he was aroused. He shouldn't have been surprised; it wasn't an unusual reaction to the stress of the last several days. He considered ignoring it, rolling over, and going to right to sleep, but he could hardly remember the last time he'd jerked off, and who was he trying to impress?

He pulled his shirt over his head and then slid his hand down to the front of his shorts, touching himself through the soft cotton. He took hold of the waistband, slid the boxers over his hips, and wrapped his hand around his growing erection. He didn't linger, didn't take his time, just stroked himself with sure, strong motions.

He forced his mind to empty and let himself think only of anonymous hands, anonymous mouths, refusing to permit thoughts of anyone or anything but the feel of his own warm hand on his hard cock, and the tensing muscles in his abdomen and thighs. He squeezed his eyes shut and exhaled a moan when he came, jerking and shooting hard into his palm.

A few minutes later, when his pulse stopped racing, he went to the bathroom to clean up. A few minutes after that, he rolled over in bed and wondered if maybe he should have hung out with House tonight after all. Being alone sucked.


	5. Bad Mojo is Not a Diagnosis (It's a Way of Life)

House needed a patient and he needed a patient soon, because if his team had any more downtime, he feared they were going to start looking up caterers and china patterns. In desperation, he combed his desk for any useless paperwork he could assign them.

Twenty-four hours had given the gag enough time to make the rounds and then some. By ten o'clock House had already been the ungrateful recipient of two more wedding magazines (one from Radiology, who were still mad about the incidents with the MRI -- both of them -- and one from the entire nursing pool), four e-mails with links to wedding websites (including one from the kid who worked at the hospital gift shop, and another from Stacy's husband -- had she and Cuddy taken out a billboard or something?), and countless stares and barbs. The next person to "accidentally" address him as "Mrs. Wilson" was getting a bag of flaming dog shit in their locker. Cuddy was getting two on her doorstep.

In the adjacent conference room, Cameron was regaling an audience of Foreman and Chase with stories about her jailbait cancer wedding, which might have been heartwarming, House thought meanly, if her husband hadn't gone to that great frat house in the sky only months later.

Under October's _FHM_, House found several long-overdue billing forms. He grabbed them and triumphantly brought them into the conference room.

"Do you really think this would work?" Foreman was asking.

"Stacy and Cuddy were right," Cameron said. "I looked it up -- spousal privilege prevents any married couple from being compelled to testify against one another in court."

"Wilson and I are not getting married."

"But --"

House slammed the papers down on the table and was disappointed when they barely made a sound. Next time, he resolved to bring something heavier. "Do we have to go over the differences between boys and girls again? Assorted teddy bears in his office notwithstanding, Wilson is not a woman. And since we're a few hundred miles south of Canada, this presents certain problems for your sadistic little scheme." He couldn't bring himself to mention the other obstacles to such a plan, namely that Wilson was ostensibly straight, and probably hated him. "Fill these out. I'm going to lunch."

 

He found Cuddy behind her desk. To his annoyance, she didn't even lift her head to look at him. "Don't you have some sort of work to do?"

"Yeah, I _do_," he said loudly. "It's just a shame that my team is too busy gossiping about your weird wedding fetish to listen and do their jobs."

"Right, this is entirely my fault. If only I hadn't stuck that thermometer up a cop's ass -- things would just be sunshine and roses all around."

One of House's great regrets in life was his inability to strike fear into the heart of his boss whenever he had cause to barge into her office and yell at her. Cuddy was utterly unflappable in that regard. Threats of violence couldn't move her. She was immune to blackmail attempts, and since House didn't have any really good dirt on her that he hadn't conjured up out of his own mind, that was a dead end.

He'd found out a few days earlier that he what he could do was make her cry -- but the whole thing had made him feel disgusted enough with himself that he'd privately vowed to never do it again.

Having given up on terrorizing Cuddy into letting him get away with things, House typically had to resort to Plans B and C, which were annoying her into submission, and shameless acts of bribery. But none of those options was going to make any of this go away: not Tritter, not the trial, not the asinine gossip, and not the wall he'd somehow managed to build between himself and Wilson. Defeated, he headed for the door.

Cuddy's voice followed him. "That's it? That's all you wanted, to yell at me?"

House paused in her doorway. "Yeah, that's it. Makes me happy." He gave her a menacing grin on his way out.

* * *

"I need you to tell me exactly what happened with this cop," Howard said. "Everything you can remember, from the day he came into the clinic to the last time you saw him."

House did his best impression of exasperation. It had become a reflexive reaction to the mention of Tritter. Although he'd never admit it to anyone, he recognized it as a defense mechanism. The cop gave him the creeps.

"He showed up at the clinic with a rash on his --" House glanced up in time to catch Wilson's disapproving stare. "-- his penis. Can I say 'penis', Dr. Wilson?" he asked, just to annoy him. It was bad enough having Wilson tag along to his meetings with the lawyer, but monitoring House's language was overstepping it just a bit.

"It's probably best if we leave the specific anatomical details out," Howard suggested. "Please, continue."

"I looked at the rash, saw he was chewing nicotine gum, told him he had a lubrication problem. It was a mindless diagnosis. A first-year med student could have told him that. He insisted I run a pointless, unnecessary test; I told him no. He --" House stopped himself, but Howard and Wilson both leaned forward in their respective chairs, having caught a whiff of something interesting.

House muttered, low enough that he hoped neither of them heard it, "He also kicked my cane."

"He _what_?"

Shocking Wilson was usually more fun than this. "Never mind."

"He kicked your cane? Like, out from under you? While walking?" Actually, Wilson's righteous outrage on House's behalf was a lot easier to take than his righteous outrage directed at House. House made a mental note to invent a few more indignities Tritter had inflicted upon him, to see if he could get a similar reaction out of Wilson again.

"_You_ sawed halfway through my cane. What's the difference?"

"You practically dared me to! I had to deal with you for years -- he only had to put up with you for five minutes."

"By your own admission, you were rude to him," Howard calmly directed them back to business. "How rude are we talking? What else happened?"

House averted his eyes. "After the cane thing, I took a swab of his -- problem. He thought it might be an infection, so I had to get his temperature. The nicotine gum made it impossible to get an accurate oral reading, so I used a rectal thermometer."

"And?"

"And ... then I left."

Howard gazed quietly at him. "That's pretty rude," he observed.

"He had it coming," House muttered.

Howard sighed in resignation. "Then what happened?"

"He went crying to Cuddy; she told me to apologize. I ..." He paused again, contemplative. "He said he wanted to humiliate me."

"Considering you left a thermometer in his rectum," Wilson said quietly, "can you really blame him?"

Howard regarded each of them quietly. "Those were his exact words?"

"He said, 'I'm not interested in sincerity, I'm interested in humiliation.'"

Howard nodded, his expression pensive. "What else?"

"Then he pulled me over for speeding. Which I wasn't doing."

"Of course not. He just happened to be in the area?"

"Of course not," House snapped, "he followed me from the hospital."

Howard made a thoughtful sound at the back of his throat.

"He asked for my license and registration. I didn't have them. Then he searched me --"

"On what grounds?" Howard interrupted. "Why did he search you?"

"He saw me take a pill at the clinic."

"Vicodin?"

"Yeah."

"Hmm." Howard jotted something down on a legal pad. "Are those the white tablets I've seen you take?"

House reached into his pocket, pulled out the latest bottle, and rattled it in the affirmative.

"What happened next?"

"He read me my rights and handcuffed me."

"You didn't resist?"

House glared. "I'm a cripple. He's a walrus with a weapon. What do you think?"

Howard smiled wanly. "I think you probably did the responsible thing for the first and last time in this mess."

They went over the rest of the timeline, from the search of House's apartment to the seizure of Wilson's assets to the stolen oxy and the lost deal. Howard also took notes on House's medical history since the infarction. By the end of the session, Wilson was looking as tragic as House had ever seen him, and his own leg was hurting like a bitch. Howard was nearly apoplectic.

He released them with a shake of his head. "I'm going to need to talk to your team," he told House, "and probably Dr. Cuddy, too."

Of the two of them, only Wilson was brave enough to acknowledge the look on Howard's face. "Still bad news?"

Howard sighed again. He did it more than anyone House had ever met, except maybe Wilson, or maybe that was just a characteristic of spending time with House. "I've won harder cases," the lawyer said, "but not many. Whatever grounds I'm able to make up are probably going to be lost when Wilson testifies."

House stole glances at Wilson out of the corner of his eye as they drove back to the hospital. Wilson wasn't just lost in thought: he was trapped in an uncharted, untraveled wilderness of contemplation. More than ever before, House wished he had some sort of line into Wilson's brain, but his friend's powers of duplicity had been magnified by years of knowing House. Wilson was inscrutable.

House arrived at his office at a quarter past five. At five-thirty, he noticed the _New York Times_ clipping perched on top of the mess of files cluttering his desk. He plucked it up by the frayed edge, avoiding the newsprint, and took in the headline:

_New Jersey governor signs civil unions into law_

He blinked at it and turned to look into the conference room, where Foreman and Chase were conspicuously trying to look busy, and where Cameron was standing, arms crossed, staring at him with challenge in her eyes.

Half a dozen biting retorts flew to House's mouth, but he resisted. He glanced back down at the scrap of newsprint. It had taken the wind out of him; he felt strangely uninvolved and tense at the same time. The trash can was within arm's reach, but somehow he couldn't bring himself to pitch the article. Instead, he opened his rarely used top desk drawer, slipped the clipping inside, and shut it with a bang.


	6. You Just Can't Always Anticipate the Conditions

The arraignment was quick but far from painless. Wilson sat in the middle of the room, near enough to be supportive, but not so close as to be overbearing. Cameron had wanted to go, too, but House had growled at her to get back to work and she'd obediently scampered off. He'd tried growling at Wilson, too, but Wilson was bigger than Cameron and harder to scare away.

At Howard's insistence House had worn a tie, although he'd balked at ironing anything. He also seemed to be taking Howard's advice to keep his mouth shut, except for the times when he was specifically addressed by the judge. Wilson felt weirdly proud of him, and unshakably nervous. Howard's reminder of the gravity of his own testimony still weighed in his mind.

As the judge began reading the absurdly long list of charges, Wilson felt someone take a seat next to him on the bench, much too close for a stranger. His jaw clenched tightly as he turned to see Tritter, who was gazing at Wilson with disinterested pity.

"What are you doing here?" Wilson whispered angrily. "Don't you have some kind of _job_?"

"I could ask you the same question," Tritter answered, bothering only to lower his voice a notch.

"I'm here to support a friend," Wilson snapped.

"Some friend, huh?" Tritter reached into the pocket of his jacket and withdrew a piece of nicotine gum. He smelled like menthol and cheap aftershave.

"You're one to talk. You said you wanted to help him."

Tritter only shrugged. "A guy has to want to help himself."

"He came to you to take the deal! He would have gone to rehab! You --" Wilson had to stop himself; his voice was rising and people around them were starting to look. "You yanked that deal out from under him when he needed it most," he hissed. "You lied to both of us." He wasn't sure if he was angrier on House's behalf or his own.

Tritter's smile sent a chill down Wilson's back; his fingers instinctively curled into fists. "Everybody lies." Tritter stood up. "I'll see you at the trial," he promised, then left.

With Howard at his side, House plead not guilty to each charge as it was listed: speeding, driving under the influence, reckless driving, driving without a license, resisting arrest, possession of a Schedule II drug, possession with intent to traffic, and the killer -- forgery.

Wilson watched quietly, taking in the courtroom, Howard's posture, and the bare patch of neck between the back of House's collar and his messy, uncombed hair. Wilson thought about Tritter's betrayal, just when House had finally been willing to get help. He thought about House -- unconscious on his living room floor, apologizing in Wilson's hotel room, in pain behind bars -- and he thought about Cameron's e-mail.

Leaving the courtroom, House yanked his tie off, stuffed it in his pocket, and quietly asked Wilson, "What did the cop want?"

"To rub my face in it," Wilson said. Of course House had noticed; he'd probably smelled Tritter as soon as he'd walked through the doors. "Probably looking for something else to charge you with." He gave House a look, assessing the tension running through House's body. "How are you doing?"

"Oh, just dandy," House sniped as he one-handedly freed the top two buttons on his dress shirt and rolled his neck. "Never better."

Wilson didn't bother digging for a better answer; it was a rhetorical question, anyway, and they both knew it.

"Lunch time," House mused as they got back to Wilson's car. "Burgers?"

"Maybe later," Wilson said, quelling the pang of hunger drawn out by the idea of food. "I have an appointment." It was a lie, but he'd gotten a lot better at lying to House, and his friend hadn't seemed to notice.

* * *

The first time Wilson got up to find Cuddy, he was back behind his desk before he could make it out the door. The second time he made it as far as the clinic before turning back. He steeled his resolve, and on the third attempt he succeeded.

Cuddy glanced up at him as he entered her office and seemed to find him interesting enough to stop what she was doing. "How did the arraignment go?"

Wilson glanced surreptitiously around the room. "Can we ... go somewhere where he's less likely to burst in at any moment?"

Cuddy smiled wearily. "I know just the place."

There was an available exam room in the clinic, so Cuddy instructed the intake staff not to send any patients their way. They locked the door and shut the blinds.

"So," she said. "Why the secret rendezvous?"

Wilson shifted uncomfortably. There was no way this conversation could be easy for him. "I need to talk to someone. About ... this marriage thing."

"_This_ required going someplace where House couldn't find us? He barged into my office the other day just to yell at me about it. It was just a joke! Look, if the teasing is getting out of hand, I can send memos to the other department heads, tell them to cool it."

Wilson shook his head. "Not ... that. Something else. Last night, I got an e-mail from Cameron. Stacy was right about the spousal testimony thing. She was just wrong about the joke."

Cuddy mimed irritated confusion. "I don't follow."

He took a deep breath, ignored the twist of fear in his chest, and bit the bullet. "They just made civil unions legal in New Jersey. They have all the same rights as real marriages, but for --" Gay. Queer. _Gay._ "-- same-sex couples."

Cuddy's eyes widened.

"And that includes the right to not be forced to testify against each other."

She stared at him like he was some sort of idiot, and then barked a dry laugh. "You must be kidding me."

Wilson shakily stood his ground. "I'm not kidding. This may be the only way to prevent the DA from forcing me to testify against him, and Howard said my testimony will send House to jail no matter what else happens during the trial."

"I -- you --" Cuddy's hands fluttered. "You can't just get a civil union license with House because you feel like it! You're not a couple -- you're not even gay!"

"It doesn't matter," he said, trying not to think too much about the issue. "I looked up the details. There are some criteria we'd have to meet, but nothing we can't arrange. Or fake."

"No," Cuddy said, shaking her head. "You're not going to do this."

"Well, I'm not going to send him to prison!"

Cuddy started pacing -- never a good sign. "Have you talked to him about this?"

"Not ... yet," Wilson grimaced. "I didn't want to promise anything until ... until I was sure." Sure that it would work, sure that it wouldn't kill him, or both. After three divorces, even the idea of a fake marriage made him feel like he was having a heart attack.

"Oh, god," Cuddy moaned. "I can't believe this. It was just a _joke_."

"Yeah, well, desperate times call for desperate measures," Wilson finished weakly.

Cuddy stopped pacing and stood staring at him, looking as hopeless as she had when he'd told her about making the deal with Tritter. Not for the first time, Wilson felt a pang of remorse that every other meeting he had with Cuddy seemed to put that expression on her face.

"What do you want me to say?" she asked. "That you should go into your _fourth_ marriage -- a fake marriage -- to keep him out of jail? I can't tell you that. This is insane."

Wilson looked at the floor. "You said it yourself: he's worth too much to the hospital. Actually, he's worth too much to humanity."

"You would do this for him?" Cuddy sounded awed and a little skeptical.

Once again, he was forced to resort to the three-word explanation that wasn't an explanation at all. "He's my friend."

"He's your friend." Cuddy shook her head. "Unbelievable."

Wilson shrugged awkwardly. "I'm going to talk to him." When it appeared that Cuddy wasn't going to offer any more protests, he shrugged again and started to leave.

"He has no idea how lucky he is," Cuddy's voice stopped him. Wilson turned around; she was watching him with grudging admiration. "Everybody should be so lucky. Of course, normal people don't need to be this lucky."

"Because normal people can actually get along with other human beings," Wilson finished with a rueful smile.

"Every time he does something stupid and reckless and you get screwed over, I think -- this has to be it. This has to be where Wilson draws the line. But you never do." She threw her hands in the air in surrender. "Mazel tov, I guess."

"Thanks." Wilson braced himself, ignored his elevated heart rate, and went to look for House.


	7. Ask Him About the Time He Sabotaged My Cane

House was playing Warcraft and still jonesing for a burger when Wilson showed up in his office later, but the determined, petrified look on Wilson's face indicated that dinner would have to wait. He was in for another one of their Serious Talks. House missed the days when they could just drop things off the roof together, or chat about Cuddy's breasts, or simply make fun of each other in peace.

"We have to talk," Wilson began, for probably the thousandth or so time since House met him, and House braced himself for yet another armchair psychoanalysis of his various problems and pathologies. He liked picking people's brains as much as the next obsessive narcissist, but Wilson should have just bitten the bullet and gone into psychiatry instead of cancer.

"I don't _think_ I've done anything awful since I saw you five hours ago. Or at least nothing you'd be able to find out about this quickly."

"This is important," Wilson said gently. It was unnerving enough that House actually closed the computer window and paid attention. It sounded almost like the tone Wilson used to tell his patients they were dying. House tensed, waiting for his own death sentence to be delivered.

Wilson stood on the other side of House's desk, clearly too wound up to sit down. "It's about the trial, and my testimony," he started, and then hesitated. "And it's also about what Stacy said to Cuddy."

As if answering a cue, House's leg started to hurt. He began fumbling in his pocket for the pill bottle while his stomach did metaphorical back flips. The newspaper clipping, still resting in his desk drawer, was a radioactive bomb about to go off.

"Tritter and the DA are going to force me to testify. We both knew that, and Howard confirmed it. There's nothing either of us can do to get around it. Unless ..."

House closed his eyes and bit his tongue to keep himself from shouting, _don't say it._

"... unless we had a civil union. They're legal now in New Jersey, and they work the same as any real marriage. If ... if I were your 'spouse', they couldn't make me testify against you. All we'd have to do is get the license and sit through a ten-minute ceremony -- and then they couldn't touch me. You'll be free."

"Wilson," House started, with no idea what he intended to say. There was no way Wilson could do this for him. But Wilson didn't give him an opportunity to flounder.

"What I'm trying to say is," Wilson continued, fidgeting and then reaching into his pants pocket to retrieve something. Two spots of color stood out on his cheeks. "What I'm trying to say is -- will you join me in a phony civil union to keep you out of jail and keep me from having to betray my best friend?" He stuck his hand out, offering House what turned out to be, on closer examination, a Ring Pop.

House was silent. He wasn't sure that there was enough sarcasm in the world to top this stunt. He also wasn't sure if sarcasm was the first thing on his mind, but it made for a safe refuge from what he was actually feeling.

Wilson must have interpreted his non-response as some sort of shocked confusion. "I know how much you like -- candy," he hastily explained, _and sucking on things_, House silently supplied.

He fought with near-preternatural effort against the smile that threatened, and then reclined in his chair, feigning thoughtfulness. "I don't know," he hedged. "Can you support me in the style to which I've become accustomed?"

"Let's see," Wilson said dryly. "Food, bail, spontaneous rides to Atlantic City, expensive semi-illegal drug habit -- I'd say I already do."

House conceded the point with a shrug and moved onto his next objection. "But we've hardly dated. I'll want a long engagement, of course --"

"House. Seriously," Wilson interrupted, and it suddenly hit House that, despite the presentation, Wilson was dead serious, and that making this offer was a sacrifice of monumental proportions. The realization was like a blow to the solar plexus. He felt sick, dizzy, exhausted.

"This ... is a pretty big leap," he said.

"I know. But if it's the only way for you to keep your medical license, your job, your freedom -- then so be it."

"You're not concerned about what your co-workers will say? Your exes? Your parents?"

Wilson rolled his eyes. "We won't be trying to fool them -- we only need to fool the court system. Who cares what they say? They'll probably say we're nuts, but what else is new?"

House shifted in his chair, focusing on Wilson's hands, which were resting on his hips, and Wilson's bare forearms. His eyes returned to Wilson's face. "And you don't care if people cast ... aspersions ... on your sexuality?"

The blush returned in full force. House noted it with interest, along with Wilson's firm "Of course not."

"You'd really do this for me." It wasn't a question.

Wilson visibly bristled. "_Someone_ has to care about your career. Since you won't do it ..."

"... you have to," House finished.

"City Hall. Saturday." If Wilson looked a little awkward and miserable walking out of his office -- well, House thought, he'd only brought it on himself.

He didn't bother restarting his stupid computer game. He sat in the darkened office and rested his chin on the cane. He felt -- flayed. Exposed. Which was stupid, because Wilson was the one putting himself out there for public mockery, the one making the sacrifices for House and his job -- as usual.

_Insane._ That's what this was. House didn't respect many social constructs, but he still held onto a disaffected respect for marriage, civil unions, whatever -- it was why he never stopped being annoyed at the fact that Wilson seemed to have no respect for marriage whatsoever. He'd lived with Stacy for five years and never once thought of proposing to her, because he'd known even then that there was nothing certain or permanent about them.

The idea of doing it as a con, just to keep his ass out of jail, was an affront to his worldview. It made him feel sick. There had to be a better way to win this case, but if there was, he couldn't think of it. Spending the next ten years in prison made him feel sicker.

In the conference room, his team was discussing their patient, who was making a slow but apparently steady recovery, and who had therefore lost House's interest. The bruise on Chase's jaw was fading to blues and greens. They all looked up as he entered the room.

"How was the arraignment?" Cameron asked, as unwilling to mind her own business as ever. She and Wilson had a lot in common in that respect.

"Great," House said, infusing his voice with saccharine cheer. "Can't wait for the next one. Cameron, you're covering my clinic hours tomorrow."

"Uh, why?" It was Foreman's turn to stick his nose where it didn't belong.

"Important date. Tranny hooker."

Foreman smirked. "I thought you were confining your skanky, illegal sex-capades to after work hours, House."

"Actually, that reminds me," House said, immediately wondering if the segue was a bad idea but figuring it was too late to worry. "I'll need one of you on Saturday."

Chase cocked his head. The light hit his jaw, illuminating the bruise. "What for?"

House sucked in a breath and averted his eyes. "To witness the civil union ceremony."

There was an agonizingly long silence before Foreman finally broke it with, "You're shitting us, right?"

"Sure," House agreed. "I'm totally shitting you. But just in case, I need one of you at the Princeton City Hall on Saturday. Noon." He got up and grabbed his cane. "I'm going home."

He wasn't sure whether to take it as a good sign or a bad one that not a single one of them said anything else or tried to stop him.


	8. And You Would Know Normal?

Wilson managed to avoid seeing House the next day, but the hospital-wide windfall from what had transpired was impossible to escape. The intake nurses behind the desk at the front of the building shook their heads pityingly at him. His assistant gave him a look that was a toss-up between stunned admiration and the look someone might have worn while watching a zoo animal eat its own feces.

He checked his e-mail: three "what were you _thinking_?" messages from colleagues, and one encouraging recommendation for a progressive-minded rabbi in Plainsboro from someone who might or might not have been in on the joke that there was nothing sacred or holy about Wilson's pending nuptials. The rabbi might have been liberal enough to bless a gay marriage between a lapsed Jew and a grouchy goy, but Wilson doubted she was open-minded enough to bless a scam.

He had two terminal patients, including a child, and one death before noon. He ate lunch alone in his locked office, lacking the nerve to brave the stares and rude questions in the cafeteria.

Everything should have been fine. He was just doing a favor for a friend -- his best friend -- and okay, it was an _unusual_ favor, but House was an unusual guy and they had an unusual friendship. Wilson should have been handling this better. And he would have been, if he hadn't started having second thoughts about the civil union, one of which was the somewhat delayed revelation that _friends didn't marry friends as favors_. People married for sex, for money, for power, to stave off loneliness, to create makeshift families for unplanned children, to get green cards, to get financial aid for college, for love -- that mysterious, elusive, indefinable 'x' factor -- but they didn't marry _friends_ as a _favor_. Nobody was that good a person. Wilson certainly wasn't. He'd never get married to a friend like this -- which made him wonder what the hell House was to him, if not a friend.

Worse than that, though, was the realization that he _noticed_ things about House -- things he had no business noticing. Things he'd been noticing for a while. Things like the way House smelled: clean, like the soap Wilson remembered House buying when he lived in House's apartment, and a little like coffee in the morning. How many days it had been since he last shaved. The fading bullet scar on the side of his neck. His energy -- dulled, of course, by these last few weeks, but still there if you knew where and when to look for it -- and the smooth strength of his imperfect body.

That line of thought was too disturbing to focus on for long. His own dying patients were easier on the mind.

But the worst event of the day by far was the visit from House's team.

"I'm not talking about this," Wilson warned them by way of a greeting.

"I cannot believe you're getting a phony civil union with House to keep him out of jail," Foreman challenged.

"And yet here you are, talking about it anyway," Wilson sighed in defeat.

"There's no way this is going to work," a still sullen Chase said. He'd been in a dour mood since the day House socked him. Wilson couldn't blame him. He'd been pretty depressed lately himself.

"It will work," Cameron insisted as if she could singlehandedly make it work by sheer force of will.

"Wanna bet on it?" Foreman offered.

"This seems like the sort of conversation that could be held without my participation," Wilson politely suggested. "Say, in a place that's not my office."

"Don't you think Tritter will figure out it's a scam?" Chase continued.

"It doesn't matter if he thinks it's a scam," Cameron said. "It's legally binding. And anyway, it's not his case anymore -- it's the district attorney's."

Foreman pretended to look thoughtful. "So, are we talking about a Jewish wedding? Will there be one of those canopies? Will someone step on a wine glass?"

"This is not a wedding," Wilson snapped, "and it's not a marriage. This is a stupid favor for a friend who doesn't deserve it. It's a sham, it's a _farce_, and as soon as this trial is finished, it's _over_. Then we can all go back to our real lives and stop having our practices interrupted and our bank accounts frozen and --" He realized he was almost shouting, and continued in a quieter voice, "and things will go back to normal." Normal, as always, being a relative term. Normal, hopefully, being a state that didn't include hiding out in his office, away from his co-workers, silently wondering what the hell he was really feeling about his best friend.

Chase and Cameron at least had the decency to look contrite. Foreman, damn him, looked suspicious and analytical, and Wilson felt his face heat as though someone had written _I'm questioning my allegedly platonic feelings for the friend I'm about to fake marry_ on his forehead.

Foreman didn't say anything. Wilson realized he was being ridiculous.

"I have work to do," he concluded, which was true and had the added benefit of actually getting them to leave. House's team shuffled toward the door.

Cameron leaned back through the doorway and caught Wilson's eye. "Thank you for doing this for him," she said quietly. She waited, as if expecting a response, but Wilson could only stare dumbly. She eventually gave up and left him to his own thoughts.


	9. I Hurt My Shoulder Playing Fantasy Football

Friday night found House digging out the ironing board that hadn't seen the light of day since Wilson moved out, and ironing the wrinkles from his best shirt -- the blue one -- cursing himself the entire time for feeling, even at the deepest and most neglected level, that he had to look presentable on his fake wedding day.

Not like he had anything better to do on Friday night. He couldn't sleep. Wilson was getting to him, getting under his skin, making him worry about things like _ironing_ \-- there was something deeply wrong with that. He had to talk himself out of buying a boutonnière, like he was going to the world's oldest and most awkward prom and not to a sham civil union ceremony with his best friend.

The shirt was nice, though. Even Wilson had agreed the last time House had worn it, for his "date" with Cameron -- another in a long list of spectacularly awful ideas he'd got himself roped into going along with. He remembered more about getting ready for the event, with Wilson lying on his sofa and coaching him in the arts of ties and seduction, than he did about the date itself.

Maybe the shirt was too nice. In a moment of near-panic, House almost rolled the thing into a ball and pitched it into the back of his closet. He started to reach for his newest bottle of Vicodin, but the memory of the hurt and dismay on Wilson's face when Wilson had given it to him was enough to stop him. That look had not been unlike the look Wilson gave him while explaining the civil union idea. There didn't seem to be anything Wilson wouldn't sacrifice for House -- his marriages, his morals, his privacy, his dignity ...

The thought was terrifying. This was a mistake. He resolved to call Wilson immediately and tell him that the whole gig was off.

House's leg spasmed as he went for the phone and he clutched his thigh, wincing in pain. It was dull pain compared to what he'd gone through during Tritter's three-day window, when Cuddy had taken his meds away. House reached for the newest pill bottle and swallowed one dry. He thought about the quality of prison healthcare, and the phone call was forgotten.

Wilson picked him up on Saturday morning with a faint waft of expensive cologne and a cloud of tense silence that didn't clear until they reached their destination. House could tell that Wilson noticed the wrinkle-free shirt and knew exactly what he had done, but mercifully, Wilson didn't comment.

As Wilson parked the car near the imposing building, House felt something twist in his gut. Wilson appeared to be on the verge of either bolting or weeping at any moment. Naturally, he looked great doing it. House's fingers itched to reach across the small distance separating them, but then perversely, against his better judgment, he succumbed to the uglier urge to mock.

"What's your problem?" he asked in a low voice. "You should be a pro at this by now."

Wilson didn't answer. He didn't even turn to acknowledge that House had spoken, and the half-petrified, half-sorrowful look remained on his face. He opened the car door and got out.

House followed, both his leg and his shoulder starting to ache. Wilson might have been onto something when he'd accused House of unconsciously manufacturing the shoulder pain to deal with his guilty conscience. "We don't have to do this," he said quietly, for what felt like the tenth time. The sidewalk kept disappearing beneath their feet, propelling them towards their fate.

"Don't tempt me," Wilson muttered back, but there was no heat in his voice, only fatigue, like a surrendering general at the end of a long war.

Inside the building, they found House's entire team assembled: Cameron, wearing a modest blue dress and a beatific smile; Chase, in a suit and a disapproving frown; and Foreman, tie-less and with a shit-eating grin. Wilson gave them a grim smile of acknowledgment. House scowled at them en masse. "I thought I told you I only needed one of you."

"We talked about it," Cameron said, "and we decided it wouldn't be fair for just one of us to get to see this."

"You know," Foreman opined, "I've heard it's bad luck for the groom to see the bride before the wedding."

"You're all fired," House said, nodding at Foreman, "you especially." He gave Wilson a sidelong glance that he hoped hid his nervousness. "Let's get this over with."

Wilson sighed in a way that did absolutely nothing to conceal his own anxiety. "Let's."

They had to wait in the hallway among some pathetic-looking chairs, in line behind a conspicuously pregnant teenage couple. House felt ancient next to them. He also felt, at some level he didn't want to acknowledge, terribly alone.

While the teenagers held hands and stared at each other with big cow eyes, House leaned back and stared narrowly at Wilson, who'd taken a seat across the hall, a safe distance away, looking like a man waiting for his own execution. It was enough to draw even Cameron's sympathy, and House knew what Cameron had thought about Wilson making the deal with Tritter. Now, her anger seemingly forgotten, she took the seat next to Wilson and ventured a supportive hand to pat Wilson's knee.

House looked at her slender hand on Wilson's knee and felt a small, surprising pang of jealousy. He remembered again that she was the only one of them, aside from Wilson, who had been down this road before. Actually, Cameron's doomed marriage to a dying husband bore a stronger resemblance to Wilson's current position than House was comfortable contemplating.

_Happiest day of my life_, he thought, looking bitterly at his shoes. He rubbed at his damaged thigh, trying and failing to soothe away the pain. He wished he could just drug himself into an opiate stupor. Everything would be so much easier if he could just turn his brain off for a few hours and pretend that this wasn't his stupid, screwed-up life.

The 'ceremony' was over quickly. The county clerk read the standard spiel in a monotone, they assented at the appropriate places, and Wilson tried hard not to look like he wouldn't mind if a hole opened up under him and sucked him into the bowels of the earth, never to be seen again.

Remarkably, the kids managed to behave themselves throughout the ceremony, although Foreman's smirk hardly wavered, Chase still looked at House like a kicked puppy, and Cameron actually had the nerve to get teary-eyed toward the end.

House's shoulder ached and guilt-driven nausea crept up on him. By the time the clerk reached "by the authority vested in me by the State of New Jersey, I hereby join you in civil union," House felt like retching. This ugly, fake thing -- this wasn't how it was supposed to be. If things were different, if they were under other circumstances ... he felt foolish, pathetic and dizzy. Only the curious sight of Wilson standing next to him, his expression strange and sad, kept him upright.

That and knowing what Wilson would do to House if he puked on Wilson's shoes.

* * *

There was nothing festive about their late celebratory lunch. Cameron had insisted that it was their treat in spite of Wilson's protests. House had made fun of her but went along with it anyway. Eventually they'd found a restaurant a few blocks from city hall. At least it was free food, although it tasted like paper and sat like lead in his stomach.

"To Wilson," Foreman declared, raising his glass. "For braving the wedded waters yet again, and saving all our jobs by joining our boss in unholy matrimony. Cheers."

Cameron raised her glass with a grin. Even Chase managed to produce a hint of his old smile. Wilson, reluctance written all over his face, eventually joined the toast. House held out the longest, but then remembered that it was his ass getting saved, and the least he could do was drink to the guy saving it.

The forced revelry dragged on for nearly two hours before he and Wilson could make their escape. They walked back to Wilson's car and sat there, with the engine off, in an exhausted silence.

"So," Wilson said, a precursor to nothing.

"So," House answered, risking a glance at Wilson and then quickly looking away again.

"You're welcome." It was said with the tired annoyance of someone who has come to expect to be annoyed.

House dropped his chin. "You didn't have to do this," he reminded Wilson, in lieu of gratitude or more apologies.

He glanced up again in time to catch Wilson gazing at him -- in time to see Wilson's expression change from trepidation to blankness. "No, I didn't," he admitted, looking weirdly surprised by the fact. Wilson's mouth was parted slightly; the tip of his tongue came out to wet his lower lip ...

"Could get a hooker," House blurted before he knew what he was doing. "Or there's this strip club around here somewhere. You could reaffirm your heterosexuality the American way: by paying for it. Hell, I'll pay for it. Or we could hit the bars; I'm sure you'd have no problem picking someone up for free. I'll take a cab --"

"House."

Sometimes he hated himself. His mouth, especially. Wilson frowned at him with a mixture of disapproval and sadness.

"You used to be funny, you know," House muttered, turning away and flatly refusing to look back.

"So did you," Wilson said quietly.

_What does that mean?_ House almost asked, but he knew Wilson would just ignore or deflect the question, so he didn't bother.

Wilson drove. The quiet between them was tense and irrevocably awkward. When they reached his apartment, House thought he should say something better than _see you Monday_ and less rude than the hundredth crack about Wilson's last three marriages he'd been thinking of making. He settled on "Wanna come in?"

He wondered if he should have stuck with the marriage joke when Wilson's face turned from shocked to scared to sealed-off in a matter of seconds. "I think," Wilson said carefully, "I'd better not."

House felt a familiar twinge of childish self-pity. It wasn't the first time Wilson had declined an offer of his company, and House had shot him down a hundred times before, but that didn't make the rejection sting any less.

Then again, maybe it was for the best. He was in a weird mood, being this close to Wilson, being suddenly _married_ to Wilson, and he wasn't entirely sure he could trust himself.

"Right," House said. "Well."

Wilson looked at him sedately. "It's been ... interesting," he said, and for a panicked moment House thought Wilson was bidding farewell to their friendship, before he realized Wilson had been talking about the _day_. He was thrown again when Wilson extended his right hand to House.

_If Wilson was a woman_, House thought, _he would try to hug me now. If we were actually married, he would --_ He shirked the idea and accepted Wilson's hand, shaking it awkwardly. If they held on a little longer than absolutely necessary, it was probably Wilson's fault.

"Okay," House said.

"Okay," Wilson agreed.

House nodded one more time for good measure before getting out of the car and returning to his cold, empty apartment.


	10. I Honestly Figured I'd Get a Different Judge Today

"You did _what_?!" Howard hissed.

The DA's office had agreed to Howard's suggestion of a bench trial, sparing them the jury selection process. Howard had seemed sure that it was their best chance, and they had to trust that he knew what he was doing.

Howard, unfortunately, had no idea what House and Wilson were doing, which made for an uncomfortable confrontation outside the courtroom on Wednesday morning, the first day of House's trial.

"I thought it would improve my chances of not having to testify against him," Wilson said defensively, lowering his voice to match Howard's. He glanced around. They were already starting to draw attention to themselves. House, whose tireless enjoyment of shocking people apparently did not apply to civil union scams -- or maybe just not to civil union scams involving Wilson -- remained silent.

Howard, who had been glaring at House, turned to Wilson. "This was your idea?"

Wilson nervously rubbed the back of his neck and tried to explain. "Technically, it was his ex-girlfriend's idea. Then it was Cuddy's idea. Then --"

"It was just a joke!" Howard said.

"But it might work, right?"

Howard waved his hands in the air. "It -- you -- there is virtually no chance --"

From behind him, a brick-hard voice rasped, "You son of a bitch."

Wilson spun to find himself face to face with Tritter, who still had nothing better to do than stalk them. Tritter's eyes were the searing blue at the center of a flame, but the rest of his face was tightly controlled.

"Don't you have parking meters to check or something?" House snarled. Wilson watched as House jauntily popped another pill in his mouth and tried to ignore the way the sight of the Vicodin made him feel. After the nightmare of Christmas Eve, Wilson had almost given up altogether on confronting House's drug use. He'd seen the depths to which House would sink and was afraid to follow him there. He wasn't even sure that it mattered anymore. Vicodin abuse would be the least of House's problems if he lost this trial.

Still, watching House take the pills and knowing that the pain House was medicating was at least as much psychological as physical -- not to mention knowing the long-term damage wrought by the accumulating acetaminophen in House's body -- made Wilson feel like there was an anvil on his chest. Watching House passively-aggressively self-destruct in the years since the infarction and Stacy had been standard. Watching House actively killing himself was an entirely new nightmare.

Tritter slowly turned from Wilson to House. He smiled smugly, but the confidence didn't reach his eyes. "You think you're going to get away with this? You think getting a phony civil union with Wilson is going to keep us from touching him?"

"Well, there is a certain expectation of fidelity," House retorted. "Although, in Wilson's case --"

"This is none of your business," Wilson said, cutting off yet another crack at his past affairs. He'd tolerated the jokes before, but there was something about their changed circumstances that made Wilson suddenly very tired of them.

"It's all my business," Tritter darkly intoned, leaning in almost intimately close to Wilson, who instinctively recoiled. "And your little wedding scam isn't going to work. You're either going on the stand or you're going to jail."

When Tritter had turned and walked just far enough away for it to be truly embarrassing, House shouted after him, "He's mine! You can't have him!"

Tritter paused for a half-second before walking on. Every other lawyer, clerk, judge, and spectator in the hallway turned and stared. Wilson grimaced, but even in the flush of humiliation, he noticed a very different kind of heat -- the dangerous kind, the kind that always seemed to flare whenever House was around, the kind he was trying his level best to ignore. House's possessiveness had always made him feel oddly pleased -- grateful that someone cared enough to want to claim him, content to be half of their pair. But since the civil union -- and, if he was being honest with himself, since long before that -- House's obstinate guardianship felt very different.

"The least you could have done is given me some sort of warning," Howard said to both of them. "If you're going to try to pull this off, you're going to have to do a lot more than this to make it seem legitimate. If they're able to prove this thing is a con, not only will Wilson still have to testify, they could also hit you with additional charges."

Panic, sudden and cold, wrapped its fingers around Wilson's throat. "What do you mean?"

"I mean fraud," Howard said in a low voice. "If they try to look into this, you're going to have to prove that you're actually together -- joint leases, joint bank accounts, insurance policies, vacation photos --"

"_Vacation photos?_" House asked, sounding almost horrified. Wilson shared the sentiment, although the photos were the least of his concerns. If what Howard was saying was true -- and they couldn't really afford to doubt him -- then Wilson would have to move back into House's apartment. There would be the inevitable backaches from sleeping on House's sofa, not to mention cleaning up after House and trying to avoid more college dorm-style pranks, but this time, Wilson wasn't sure he could handle the sheer proximity to House without doing something he would regret forever.

"-- and letters from people who know you as a couple. You can't just get a civil union license and get out of testifying. So from now on, there's no more of this _Odd Couple_ bickering all the time. No more jokes about Wilson's ex-wives, no more insulting each other. You're newlyweds," Howard snapped, "so start acting like it."

An unbidden image of what newlyweds did came to Wilson and he felt his entire face flush. How had he not known that being fake-married to House would come with so much public embarrassment? Maybe the better question was how he'd failed to realize that being fake-married to House would mean having to finally face what he'd been avoiding for so long.

"Oh, and while you're in court? It's not 'House' and 'Wilson.' It's Greg," Howard smiled with phony cheer, "and James."

House balked. "I can't call him _James_. I've never called him that." He glanced at Wilson, considered him for a moment, and then turned back to Howard. "How about Jimmy?"

Howard leveled a lethal glare at House. "He's a forty-year-old oncologist, not a two-year-old child. It's _James_, and I don't care if you don't like it."

Wilson watched Howard stalk into the trial room, leaving the two of them to deal with nomenclature. He weighed the word _Greg_ on his tongue. It felt comically foreign. It felt like being Stacy. Or House's mom.

House still looked inexplicably despondent about the name issue. "My wives all called me James," Wilson offered by way of consolation, hoping to ease House into accepting the idea, but House greeted his words with a poisonous stare.

"I know," he snapped, then followed Howard through the door. Wilson stood outside, alone, wondering whether House didn't want to use his first name because that's what his exes had called him, or because that's what his exes had called him before leaving him.

* * *

"All rise!"

Wilson watched House's back as the courtroom collectively rose to their feet. Next to him, Cuddy was watching the judge.

"Oh, shit," Cuddy said under her breath.

Wilson craned his neck to see a tall, middle-aged Asian woman in judge's robes making her way to her seat at the front of the room. Wilson frowned at Cuddy's shell-shocked expression, but she didn't explain.

"Be seated," the judge said, then turned to assess the defendant's table. "Dr. House," she said, a dryly amused smile curling her lips, "we meet again."

"What are the odds?" House flippantly replied.

"Of finding you in front of a judge? Fairly high, apparently." The judge caught sight of Cuddy and gave her a nod. "Let's get started. Mr. McKenna," she said, turning to the prosecuting attorney, "what do you have for me?"

What McKenna lacked in Howard's charm, he made up right away in pomposity. "Your Honor," he began, "it has only just come to our attention that last weekend the defendant obtained a civil union with our primary witness in a disturbingly fraudulent attempt to prevent him from testifying. We demand that your Honor suspend Dr. Wilson's spousal testimonial privilege so that this court can come to a fair judgment with all the facts available."

Wilson felt eyes on him; he turned to see Tritter, on the opposite side of the aisle, staring at him with an expression that managed to be both sneering and impassive.

The judge arched an eyebrow. "A civil union to invoke spousal immunity," she remarked. "That's one I haven't heard before."

Howard stood smoothly. "Your Honor, it is deeply insulting to my client and his partner to claim that their civil union ceremony was anything less than genuine and sincere. Doctors House and Wilson have had a very close relationship for nearly twelve years now, as anyone who knows them can attest."

Wilson felt his jaw drop. For a man who'd been close to foaming at the mouth about the civil union ten minutes earlier, Howard's transformation was incredible. Wilson wondered if they taught that sort of thing in law school or if it came naturally.

"Just as I'm sure anyone who knows them can also attest to the fact that there has never been any hint of an intimate relationship between them," McKenna snidely replied. "Your Honor --"

"That's enough," the judge said, raising her hand. "I'll take it into consideration, Mr. McKenna. If there's nothing else, you can begin with your opening statements."

Wilson had given House's preliminary hearing a pass. He could have gone: transferring most of his patients to other oncologists had left him with a very light practice and a lot of free time. But after sitting through the initial arraignment, he'd decided he couldn't stomach listening to the district attorney excoriating House -- which, it seemed, was the sole purpose of the exercise.

Now there was no way to avoid hearing the public flaying of his friend. McKenna spoke carefully of House's various sins, like he was savoring the details as they came to light, from the DUI to the illegal prescriptions to the stolen bottle of oxy from the pharmacy counter. It wasn't that Wilson had never heard it before -- he had already given House an earful and then some -- but there was an irrational part of him that felt like he had the exclusive rights to bitch House out. Where did these people who barely knew the guy get off complaining when _he'd_ had to deal with House for more than a decade?

Some part of him recognized the instinct as protective, maybe even _possessive_, but he tried not to acknowledge that.

After McKenna finished shredding House, Howard stood and attempted to undo the damage. He explained about House's leg and the pain that continually plagued him. He tried to paint a portrait of House as a misunderstood public servant, treating patients no other doctor could cure, in spite of his own problems.

Howard also spent a significant amount of time doing Tritter the same favor McKenna had done for House, accusing him of being a dirty cop with an overblown ego and an ax to grind. Wilson risked a glance toward the cop; he was eying Howard with a cool expression that made Wilson hope House's lawyer didn't have any skeletons in his closet.

Wilson spent most of the time looking at House. Despite his initial misgivings, he was ready to admit that his feelings for House transcended the normal boundaries of friendship, respect, loyalty, and platonic affection, and even the abnormal boundaries the two of them had established over the years.

He was also ready to admit that there was no way he could ever say anything about it to House. What they had together was worth more to Wilson than anything else in his life, and it had been for years. If that made him pathetic, then fine, he was pathetic -- but he couldn't afford to lose House. House was all he had. So if that meant a lifetime of stifling what he really felt, of making do with House's twisted version of friendship, of wondering forever what House would be like as more than just a friend -- so be it.

Wilson bit his tongue and watched the trial unfold before him.


	11. Like a Detective or Something

"Will you please state your name and occupation for the record?"

"Michael Tritter, detective with the Princeton Police Department."

The plan, as far as House could figure it out, had been to have Tritter lambaste him at the beginning of the prosecution's case, and wrap it up with Wilson's testimony. House couldn't quell a smug smile at the memory of Tritter's face, earlier that day, when he'd confronted them about the civil union. Without Wilson, House had a good chance of winning, and Tritter knew it.

"Detective Tritter, you pulled Dr. House over for speeding on the evening of December 9, is that correct?"

"That's correct."

"Can you describe the incident?"

House tuned out the testimony, turning in his chair so he could look at Wilson and Cuddy in the row behind him. He made a face at Cuddy's disapproving glare but was surprised by the vaguely sad look in Wilson's dark eyes.

He knew that the civil union scam had been hard on Wilson. He'd have to have been blind not to see the pain etched on Wilson's face during the ceremony and after. And it looked as though it was only going to get worse if Howard had his way.

Before, he had been able to blame Wilson's suffering on Tritter, but his own culpability was getting harder to ignore. Wilson had made the original proposal, but he never would have had to debase himself like that if House hadn't tried to out-stubborn him, Cuddy, Tritter, and the entire legal system.

He didn't want to feel guilty. He didn't want to suffer for Wilson or for anyone but himself, but there was no denying that he'd felt guilty for a long time now.

Tritter talked them through the arrest, the Vicodin confiscated at House's apartment, the 'investigation' of Wilson (_police harassment_, House thought darkly), the suspicious scripts, and the pharmacy log before McKenna declared that he had no further questions. Then it was Howard's turn to take a crack at the cop.

"Detective Tritter," he began, "before you searched and arrested Dr. House, didn't you tell him that you'd seen him take a pill while with a patient?"

On the witness stand, Tritter leaned back in his seat and regarded Howard coolly. "I did."

"When did you see Dr. House take this pill?"

"Two days earlier, in the clinic at Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. I had gone in for a routine exam."

"Is seeing a person take a pill enough grounds to arrest them?"

Tritter looked like he'd eaten something sour. "Not by itself. When I pulled Dr. House over for speeding, I found him to be agitated. His pupils were dilated and he appeared to be under the influence."

"Your Honor," Howard said smoothly, "I'd like to state for the record that my client was not under the influence of any illegal drug at the time of his arrest, and his driving was not erratic. Detective, were you able to identify the pill that Dr. House took?"

"It was Vicodin. A highly addictive narcotic."

Howard nodded thoughtfully, then stepped a few feet from the witness stand and withdrew two small, clear plastic bags from his pocket. He studied them quietly for a moment before holding them up, one in each hand. House squinted. Each bag contained a single oblong white tablet.

"Detective Tritter, can you identify these pills?"

House watched with interest as Tritter's facade of confidence wavered. "They're Vicodin," he answered, sounding uncertain.

Howard gave a genteel smile. "Actually, this one is two hundred milligrams of ibuprofen," he said, handing the bags to the judge, "and this one is a generic version of Midol."

"I'm a narcotics detective," Tritter said, anger bubbling over the surface. "I know what Vicodin looks like and I know what I saw Dr. House take."

"Are you a doctor?" Howard waved a hand dismissively. "I'll withdraw the question. I'm sure you'd never presume to know what an appropriate regimen of pain medication would be for a total stranger with a disability. Just as I'm sure you _think_ you know what you saw Dr. House take -- but as we've just seen, there are a wide variety of medications that look very similar to Vicodin, especially from a distance, especially when someone else is taking them. But let's not worry about that for now," Howard said, silencing McKenna's objection before he could make it. House bit the inside of his cheek and tried not to smile. "You said you went to Princeton-Plainsboro for a routine exam on December 7, two days before Dr. House's arrest. Dr. House was your physician during this exam?"

Tritter's mouth was tight, his expression dangerous. "Yes."

"Would you tell us a little bit about what happened during this exam?"

"Objection, Your Honor," McKenna said in a deeply put-upon tone. "Detective Tritter's medical history is not an issue."

"Your Honor, I'm trying to establish what sort of relationship Dr. House had to Detective Tritter before his arrest."

"I'll allow it," the judge said, "but make it snappy, counselor. And the detective doesn't need to reveal any personal medical details."

Howard granted the judge a genteel smile that clearly said he appreciated her support. "Of course. Detective Tritter?"

"Dr. House displayed unprofessional behavior. He was rude and he refused to perform any tests beyond a cursory examination."

"Did Dr. House give you a diagnosis?"

Tritter looked at Howard like he could stare him into submission. "Yes."

"So Dr. House gave you a diagnosis, but you still insisted that he perform unnecessary tests, wasting both his time and yours, not to mention the resources of a free community clinic --"

"Objection --"

"Withdrawn. One last question, Detective. During the course of this first meeting with Dr. House, did you ..." Howard hesitated and frowned in a surprisingly believable display of disbelief. "... _kick_ his cane from under him?"

The silence in the courtroom was painful, even for House. He glanced at the prosecution's table, where McKenna was sitting quietly, mouth gaping. "Objection," McKenna finally said.

The judge regarded Tritter and Howard with interest. "Overruled. Please answer the question, Detective."

Clearly seething, Tritter somehow managed to keep his voice calm. "It was unintentional."

Howard met Tritter's lethal glare with a small, patient smile that would have unnerved stronger men than Tritter. House glanced over his shoulder to see Cuddy and Wilson staring at the lawyer with wide-eyed admiration.

Howard's smile didn't waver. "Let me get this straight, Detective. You went to a free clinic where a doctor was rude to you. You came back to the clinic a day later, demanding that this doctor apologize to you. One day after that, you just happened to be in the same area as the doctor, and you just happened to arrest him. Would you agree these are the facts of the matter?"

"Dr. House was speeding through the area I patrol. I can't help where he decides to behave inconsiderately, with no regard for other human beings."

Howard kept the unnerving smile going for several more seconds before turning to the judge. "No further questions, your Honor."

"Redirect, Your Honor," McKenna said, almost jumping to his feet.

"Proceed, counselor."

"Detective Tritter, how long have you been a police officer?"

Tritter's gaze drifted to House, and to the row of seats behind him where Cuddy and Wilson were, before answering the question. "Twenty years."

"And in that time, you've received numerous commendations and citations, is that correct?"

"Yes."

"In all that time, Detective, has anyone ever accused you of neglecting your duties as a professional in order to nurse a grudge?"

Tritter smiled tolerantly. "No."

"No further questions," McKenna concluded, returning to his seat with the air of a man who was tired of cleaning up others' messes.

* * *

That night, under Howard's orders, Wilson checked out of the hotel and moved back into House's apartment.

House called the landlady and had her add Wilson's name to the lease. Then he sat brooding on the couch while Wilson hung his suits up in House's closet and placed carefully contrived photographs of his family in strategic locations around the apartment.

House had wanted Wilson to move back in pretty much since Wilson had first moved out. As much as he'd bitched and moaned about his roomie, it hadn't taken House long to realize that his home life was far more interesting with Wilson around. He'd even made the invitation once, but Wilson had soundly shot him down. The issue hadn't come up again until that morning.

This, though -- this was going to be a nightmare. They had been walking on eggshells around each other since the civil union ceremony on Saturday. There wouldn't be any pranks this time around; House's days of juvenile revelry were long gone. The tension running through Wilson was palpable. He moved through the apartment as if in a fugue, occasionally giving House long, speculative looks, the origins of which remained a mystery.

Wilson seemed to be fixated on a spot on House's living room floor. The origin of those looks was unmistakable. House still had no idea how long he'd lain there, unconscious, over Christmas Eve. He didn't like to dwell on the subject, but it was clearly still weighing heavily on Wilson's mind.

House answered the knock at his -- at their -- door, half-expecting to find Tritter and a cadre of uniformed cops on the other side. The sight of an exasperated Cuddy was only marginally less disturbing.

"I didn't book a stripper for tonight," House said.

"Howard called," she informed him, unceremoniously dumping a shoebox into his arms. "He said you might need some help."

"Good old Howard," House muttered, clearing the way so she could stroll through the door.

Wilson, busy crouching near the TV and alphabetizing his -- their -- DVD collection, glanced up. "Oh, hi," he said, looking surprised. He stood up and stretched his arms over his head, wincing. House watched surreptitiously as Wilson's t-shirt rose a few inches, baring a slim band of his abdomen.

"This has to be the most ridiculous thing you two have ever done." She didn't sound reproachful -- just tired.

House limped back to the couch with the shoebox tucked under his arm. Once seated, he opened it, aware that Wilson and Cuddy both were watching, the former with curiosity, the latter with resignation.

"I did some digging," Cuddy explained as House pulled out the first photograph.

It was old -- _really_ old. His mind, momentarily blank, conjured up the source: the hospital's annual holiday party, sometime in the late '90s. There was Stacy seated at a table, her smile pinched and unhappy -- and there he was, evidently a fraction of a second away from throwing his hand in front of the lens. That had been near the end of their relationship. He'd been tossing back Vicodin that night at almost the same rate as she'd been tossing back martinis.

Beside them at the table were a boyish Wilson and pretty wife #2. They had still been basically newlyweds at that point, although House had known from the engagement that it was never going to last. Even the photographed Wilson seemed to realize his second marriage was doomed, because it wasn't his bride he was leaning toward in the picture -- it was House. The photo looked more like a picture of House and Wilson than of two couples enjoying the holiday festivities.

House felt warmth at his back. He noticed that Wilson had snuck up very close to him and was now leaning over House's shoulder, staring at the photo with amazement. "Where did you find this?" Wilson asked, carefully plucking the picture from House's fingers.

"You'd be amazed at the stuff the hospital has managed to accumulate over the years," Cuddy answered, looking slightly ashamed of herself for possessing such damning evidence that she gave a crap about them. "Howard said you needed pictures. I figured you could maybe crop it."

House glanced up and over his shoulder at Wilson, who was still fixated on the picture, looking deeply preoccupied.

House sifted through the other contents of the shoebox, turning over photo after photo: several from a hospital picnic and a few from various fundraisers. Wilson had dragged him to the former; Cuddy had dragged him to the latter. Most of the pictures were not only of House and Wilson. There was usually a wife, a girlfriend, or some coworkers stuffed in there. A lot of them had obviously been either candid or sneak attacks. Some of them were excruciatingly bad. A few, though, were sort of nice, and Wilson quickly snatched those ones from House's hands as if he expected House to shred them if he didn't get there first.

"I also brought the paperwork from Human Resources," Cuddy said, pulling a manila folder from her oversized bag. "You'll need to list each other as your medical proxies and change the next-of-kin on your --"

"Yeah, yeah," House said, dropping the photos and the shoebox onto the couch and shoving himself to his feet. He had no idea where he was going; he just knew that he couldn't sit there and listen to Cuddy and Wilson manufacture the trappings of a relationship that didn't -- and never would -- exist.

House slouched into the kitchen and nodded in greeting at Steve McQueen, whose tiny gray head perked up, whiskers twitching, when he entered the room. He gave Steve a head of broccoli and himself a pill. Then he sat down at the kitchen table, idly sifting through the medical journals and takeout menus piled on top of it, and listened to his friends puttering around his living room, designing the biggest and most pathetic lie of his entire life.

* * *

With everything in its place, and the charade as well-constructed as it was ever going to get, Cuddy left. House returned to the living room to survey their work.

The place still looked like his, of course, but -- different. Wilson's things were interspersed with his own: books with House's books, CDs with House's CDs. The pictures, House had to admit, were a convincing touch. Cuddy really was some kind of genius. He wandered over to the piano and sat down on the bench, leaning his cane against a piano leg. There was a framed photo sitting on top, one of Wilson and himself -- the former grinning, the latter sort of smirking -- at some hospital event or other. He had just picked it up to take a closer look when Wilson quietly said, "I can probably get some good wedding photos."

House stopped breathing for a second before he realized that Wilson hadn't meant _their_ 'wedding' -- he'd meant _his_ weddings, the last two, both of which had featured House as the recalcitrant best man. There had been photos, naturally. He'd had to wear a tux and endure Wilson's brides, who had unanimously hated him.

There were no pictures to preserve their ceremony for posterity. House wasn't sure if that was cause for celebration or regret. Cameron had probably thought about taking pictures. Chase might have wanted to do it for blackmail purposes.

"Yeah, I'm sure your ex-wives have been keeping those albums under their beds for years," House muttered, putting the framed photo down and refusing to look at Wilson. "Bet they cry over them every night. That, or use them for target practice."

His fingers dropped to the piano keys. He tapped out a few maudlin notes, and then he closed his eyes and played blind for a while. He heard the muffled sound of water running in the bathroom. When he opened his eyes a few minutes later and glanced up, he saw Wilson in shorts and a thin white undershirt standing near the piano, watching House intently.

Wilson jumped a little when House looked at him. He put one hand on his hip and used the other to anxiously rub the back of his neck. "I think I'm going to turn in," he said, his voice a little rough around the edges.

House nodded and continued playing, but Wilson didn't move. A moment later, it dawned on him and his fingers stilled.

"Oh," House said, feeling stupid and vulnerable. Of course Wilson wasn't moving towards the bedroom. The sham must have been working, though, if even House couldn't remember that they weren't really together. "Right." He stood up with some difficulty and grabbed the cane.

"Good night," he heard Wilson say. He turned around, but Wilson had already turned his back and sat on the couch, so all House could see was unruly brown hair and Wilson's shoulder blades, outlined faintly through the white cotton shirt.

"Yeah," he said, and then went to his bed alone.


	12. There's No Way this is Going to Work

Wilson woke up early. Truthfully, he'd hardly slept. House's sofa hadn't become any more comfortable since the last time Wilson stayed there. It was worse knowing that House was probably sound asleep behind his door, alone in bed. Eyes closed, mouth slack. Maybe House's shirt would be twisted up slightly, exposing his abdomen or the small of his back. House warm and quiet was not something that Wilson got to see every day.

It wasn't that Wilson had never realized how much he cared about the miserable jackass, or that he'd never recognized the familiar flicker of lust. He had. God, he had. But as with most things in his life -- principally his marriages -- he just happened to be damn good at denial.

The trouble was that the last few weeks -- Tritter, jail, the forgeries, the forgiveness, and finally the civil union -- had amplified everything he'd been trying to suppress, throwing a spotlight on it and blowing it up in Technicolor. The body reacts to stress, Wilson reminded himself. A sudden or not-so-sudden desire to jump his best friend was not an unusual response. Besides, it wasn't like he was the first of House's colleagues to want to nail him. There was practically a waiting list.

Their new living arrangements had also made it absolutely imperative that he never let House have the slightest hint of what was going on in his head. Their friendship was messed up enough already without House suspecting that Wilson had conned him into some sort of compromising position, or whatever twisted explanation House's cynical mind would come up with.

Wilson finally got up and started getting ready for the day. He tried to be quiet about it, remembering how House had bitched him out the last time, but apparently he wasn't quiet enough. When Wilson opened the bathroom door after his shower, he practically stumbled over House, who was waiting outside. He was so rattled he nearly dropped the towel around his waist.

House stared hard at Wilson's face, his eyes wide and his expression stony, looking like he hadn't slept much either. Wilson braced himself for some cutting remark, but House just kept staring. He looked like he was fighting the inclination to look down.

"Gotta pee," House said bluntly. Wilson exhaled sharply and moved out of the way so House could get into the bathroom.

House shut the door behind him. Wilson paused for a moment to consider the fact that House had never given a damn about privacy before, with Wilson or with anyone else for that matter -- which meant that House was shutting him out, putting physical barriers between them. Wilson sighed. It figured. It had taken all his other spouses more than three days to start that process, but House had always been ahead of the curve.

Cuddy's testimony kicked off the second day of the trial. The purpose of putting her on the stand seemed to be pure character assassination. Wilson didn't envy her. Cuddy got the dubious honor of fielding question after question about House's cases -- and lawsuits -- over the last several years.

"John Henry Giles," McKenna began, prowling the floor in front of the witness stand. "Had a DNR, which Dr. House violated, resulting in a restraining order and criminal charges for battery."

"Those charges were dropped." Cuddy radiated regal disbelief that she should be subjected to this interrogation. _Attagirl_, Wilson thought. "Not only did John Henry Giles live, he regained the use of his legs and was able to walk out of the hospital thanks to Dr. House's care."

"Carly Forlano -- Dr. House withheld critical information about this patient's psychiatric condition from the transplant committee, compromising their ability to make an informed decision."

"Nobody ever proved that Dr. House was aware of that patient's psychiatric condition."

McKenna continued, rolling over Howard's objection. "But the patient did have a psychiatric condition that would have made her a poor candidate for surgery, and Dr. House failed to report it. Is that true?"

"He saved her life," Cuddy flatly stated. "And yes."

"Then of course there's Kayla McGinley, who died as a direct result of Dr. House's failure to supervise his employees and his blatant misconduct in other areas --"

"That is not true --"

"But isn't it true that Dr. House was accused of attempting to bribe _and_ blackmail a fellow doctor into performing a dangerous surgery? And isn't it true that Dr. House's behavior was so audacious that you had to appoint an employee fifteen years his junior to supervise his department?"

"Those were only accusations," she fumbled, "and the supervisory period was only one month."

"In other words, yes."

The rest of the examination continued in the same vein. Had House injected a patient with colchicine, a highly poisonous gout medication, solely to mimic the symptoms of a disease she didn't have, thereby circumventing his bosses' authority and risking that patient's life? Had House woken a burn patient against the orders of the patient's parents and anesthetist, causing that patient excruciating pain? Had House misrepresented himself to the husband of a dying woman, and then bullied the man into prolonging his wife's life against her stated wishes, solely so House could harvest her organs? Had House really spat on a surgeon in a sterile operating room to stop a liver transplant for a dying patient?

It was painful to hear House's record twisted that way -- not only because Wilson knew how the litany of disasters would sound to someone who didn't understand just how good House really was, but because it served as yet another reminder of his own failings. The lengths to which House went and the way he was able to figure out the most complex and obscure diagnoses -- Wilson couldn't come close to that.

He scraped his fingers against the unyielding wooden bench, imagining life with his best friend behind bars. If the judge bought McKenna's story, it wouldn't take much to convince her that House needed to be locked up before he hurt anyone else. And if the judge ruled against House, took away his license, and sent him to prison ...

It occurred to Wilson quite suddenly that neither of them had much to lose.

Howard's face was carefully blank as he approached Cuddy for cross-examination. "Mr. McKenna just presented a very ... interesting portrait of Dr. House, didn't he?"

Cuddy looked dazed. "You can say that again."

Howard smiled warmly. "Certainly Dr. House has an unusual style. But it works for him, doesn't it?"

"He's the best doctor we have," Cuddy admitted.

Howard nodded. "I have a question, though, Dr. Cuddy. As I was sitting there, listening to Mr. McKenna's remarkable line of questioning, I had to wonder: how did Mr. McKenna find out all these things about Dr. House's former patients? I was pretty certain that there was an expectation of doctor-patient confidentiality at hospitals. So how did the DA's office get so many case files from Princeton-Plainsboro?"

For a moment, Cuddy didn't answer. "He ... Detective Tritter, he just sort of ... helped himself to them, I guess. He's been working out of our basement for days --"

"Objection," a bored-sounding McKenna said. "If the defense wanted to obscure the evidence of Dr. House's previous entanglements with the law, they should have filed a motion at the beginning of the trial."

"I don't want to 'obscure' Dr. House's long history of saving lives, your Honor," Howard retorted. "I only want to bring Detective Tritter's _unusual_ investigative style to light. I have no more questions for this witness."

* * *

They added each other to their checking accounts.

Wilson suppressed a shudder. House was already the most expensive investment he had, sucking money out of him for food, bail, more food, gambling cash, and even more food -- but now House had _unfettered access_ to Wilson's money. He almost asked the polite young teller if he could pick up some preemptive bankruptcy paperwork while they were there, but she looked so pleased when she heard about the civil union that he didn't have the heart.

"I want a pre-nup," Wilson remarked when they got back into his car. "Something to keep you from taking half my income when this is over." He turned the key in the ignition. It was crisply cold outside.

"Too late. We're already post-nup. Or haven't you been paying attention?"

Wilson gave him a baleful look from the driver's seat. "You still owe me fifteen grand, remember?"

House appeared almost chastened for a split second. "You'll get it," he said. "And I'm not going to rob you blind after the divorce." He paused. "How do we get a divorce, anyway?"

Wilson pressed his lips together. Ironically, he hadn't looked into it yet. "The same way as anyone else, I guess." He could probably even use the same lawyer he had for the last divorce. Or maybe he'd ask Howard to do the honors.

"Great," House said quietly, looking and sounding about as far from great as a human being could get.

Wilson drove them back to the hospital so House could do his mandatory clinic hours. House was no happier about them, but at least he was unlikely to skip out on them now that Cuddy had his balls in a metaphorical vise. She could expose the farcical civil union and end all hopes of a not-guilty verdict with a single phone call. She wouldn't, of course, but House wasn't stupid enough to tempt her.

Cameron frantically waved Wilson into the diagnostics office when he passed by.

"Tritter was here earlier," she announced as if delivering a particularly shocking piece of gossip. "He was asking us all these questions about your relationship with House."

"The non-existent relationship," Foreman clarified.

"We told him you'd been together for a while now but that you hadn't told anyone around the hospital," Chase said, briefly glancing up from the newspaper. The bruise on his jaw was still plainly visible.

"He's probably going to search House's apartment and God knows what else," Cameron said.

"It's under control," Wilson assured them, and then swallowed thickly. "Thanks ... for lying for us."

It was almost inspiring, actually, the kind of loyalty House elicited from those around him. Inspiring and frightening. House could probably lead them all off a cliff or invade Poland without losing the support of Wilson and his team. They were a sociological study just waiting to happen.

Wilson met House at the front desk of the hospital and listened to him complain all the way back to the apartment about the 'morons' he'd had to endure in the clinic. Still, House complaining was better than House moping, and as long as Wilson wasn't the target of his vitriol, he was fine with hearing it.

House's cell phone rang while Wilson parked. It was Howard, calling to tell them that an interview had been scheduled with the judge for the following morning. Wilson could hear Howard's tinny voice through the earpiece, warning House that they had better be able to answer any questions she might put to them, no matter how trivial, from where they met to what they liked in their cereal to where their new in-laws lived to what brand of toothpaste they used. If they were interviewed separately and their answers contradicted, they could be busted before they knew what happened.

Practice, Howard had said, so they ordered dinner and that's what they did over the next couple of hours. It was like being back in college and cramming for an exam, complete with pizza. They quizzed each other on the basics: parents, brothers, exes, colleges. Bathroom rituals. Family holidays. Rat maintenance, which turned out to be a surprisingly complex subject. Irritating personal habits, of which House had none whatsoever, according to his own self-assessment, and of which Wilson had a crapload.

It was only slightly disconcerting that House knew more about Wilson than any of his ex-wives had. As a nosy bastard with a selectively eidetic memory, House knew almost everything. 'Almost' being the operative word there. There were plenty of things a real couple should know about one another that they didn't discuss. First time Wilson had kissed a girl. First time he'd kissed a guy. First time he'd slept with a guy. He had to assume that the judge wouldn't ask questions that intimate, so it wasn't like House needed to know. House probably would have _wanted_ to know, if he'd had any inkling about the stuff with the guys, but there were some things that even House couldn't learn from swiping the hospital's confidential personnel files. What House didn't know wouldn't hurt him -- wouldn't hurt either of them, as it happened.

They studied up on each other until Wilson's eyes burned and House started wearing a plaintive look while rubbing his leg. When House pulled out his replacement pill bottle, Wilson decided it was time to call it a day. He wasn't looking forward to another sleepless night on House's couch, but he was more resistant to watching House screw around with his Vicodin.

Wilson went into the bathroom, still startled to find his toothbrush next to House's in the shared holder -- startled to find himself in this situation at all. There were House's towels, ones that probably hadn't been replaced since Stacy moved in with him a decade ago, which were now _his_ towels, at least officially, at least on paper.

He was distracted by the shower. If they were really newlyweds, if they were really lovers, they probably would have done things in this shower. They would have been running late to work one morning, and decided to share to save time -- but then House would have pushed him up against the shower wall, tiles cold against his back and ass, and kissed him hard on the mouth. House would have tasted of clean water and he would have inadvertently scratched Wilson's face with his morning stubble and not apologized afterwards, because House would have liked the way it looked. He would have liked marking Wilson as his.

Wilson would have kissed back, because he was always up for a challenge, especially where House was concerned, and then they would have been even later. They would have stumbled into work around ten, Wilson apologetic, House cocky and smug. Everyone would have known why they were late, but they wouldn't have cared. They were married.

At least the shower would be a good place to jerk off if he couldn't stop thinking like this. Wilson watched himself in the mirror and then closed his eyes.


	13. Looks Like We Got Ourselves a Mystery

On Wednesday morning, with both lawyers and his fake spouse in tow, House went to the judge's chambers to have his brain picked. The judge, who was apparently a bigger fan of Dr. Phil than of Dr. House, wanted to talk about their marriage.

House winced at the preemptive mental daggers he could feel Howard shooting in his direction before the interview started. Wilson looked nervous, but what else was new?

House wondered if they should have practiced more or prepared some sort of bullshit romantic back-story to feed the judge. _It was love at first sight. Except for those twelve years where we didn't say anything about it._ Or maybe, _The first time we met we hated each other._ He might have suggested that one last night, but then Wilson would have said that their relationship was not an gay remake of _When Harry Met Sally_. House would have said that he hated _When Harry Met Sally_; Wilson would have protested that he liked _When Harry Met Sally_; House would have called him an offensive name and that would have been it: from best friends to barely on speaking terms in two minutes.

"So," the judge said, crossing her arms over her chest and peering at them as they sat, each in his own chair, on the other side of her desk. She spared a glance for Howard and McKenna, who were sitting quietly to her right on the leather sofa once occupied by Alice Hartman's disagreeable parents. "Mr. McKenna here has alleged that your civil union was an illegitimate attempt to prevent Dr. Wilson from testifying."

House waited for a question to present itself -- and was stunned by the sudden feel of a hand clasping his own. He looked up at Wilson, who was giving him a supportive look, only barely disguising a desperate plea for cooperation. Wilson's fingers were warm and strong. He squeezed House's hand once, then let go.

House looked back at the judge in time to see that she'd noticed the gesture. He couldn't gauge her reaction.

"How long have the two of you known each other?" she asked.

"Twelve years," Wilson supplied without a moment's hesitation. "We met at a work function."

The judge nodded encouragingly. "And have you always been ... close?"

House watched as Wilson's cheeks colored. "We've been good friends for many years." Wilson stopped, licked his lower lip, and then lied, "We've also been ... romantically involved for some time."

The judge, who didn't appear to give a damn about Wilson's pronounced mortification, asked, "How long would you say that's been?"

Wilson swallowed and glanced helplessly at House.

"Ten months," House answered without thinking, looking at Wilson, not at the judge. Wilson's face was still flushed. "Since shortly after the end of his last marriage."

"And you've just now decided to obtain the legal benefits offered by the state of New Jersey?"

"We'd, ah, been thinking about registering as domestic partners," Wilson said, turning back to the judge, "but then the civil unions thing happened. We figured ... why wait?"

The judge nodded politely, a small smile tugging at her lips. "How would you describe your relationship before your civil union?"

House tuned Wilson out as he mumbled something about professional interactions, mutual respect, trust and support. Wilson cleverly didn't mention anything about codependence and mutual abuse, which might have presented a more accurate picture of their relationship. House leaned forward and rested his chin on his cane. Wilson was uncharacteristically clumsy today. Dr. 'Panty Peeler' was normally pretty adept at sweet-talking the ladies, so while the judge might have had bigger cojones than any of the men in the room, she still should have been easy prey for Wilson's natural charms. Either Wilson was losing it, or something about their current position was throwing him off his game.

The judge asked about the 'wedding.' Wilson fed her some crap about a "small ceremony ... only a few close friends ... lunch afterward."

She then addressed House, who fielded questions about Wilson's family, Wilson's hobbies -- House refrained from saying "getting married" -- and even Wilson's preferred brand of shampoo. They were softball questions, easy to answer. House wondered if maybe the judge liked him after all. She didn't seem like the type of person to let him slide on cripple credit. Maybe she was more like Cuddy, who just liked the challenge, the battle of wits.

He revised this opinion a moment later when the judge reclined in her chair, gave Wilson an appraising look, and asked, "Dr. Wilson, what attracted you to Dr. House?"

House choked, launching him into a coughing fit that soon had him doubled over in the chair and wheezing, lungs aching. Wilson, ever the supportive partner, leaned forward and hit him unhelpfully on the back. Over the hacking noises, House heard Wilson hiss a warning in his ear.

"Don't do this," Wilson whispered, just loud enough for House alone to hear, as if House's reaction to the question wasn't completely natural and legitimate. What _attracted_ Wilson to him? What the hell kind of question was that?

House found he was curious about the answer. He specialized in driving people away, but everything he did only seemed to draw Wilson closer. Hell, he'd done just about everything short of setting Wilson's car on fire in the last few weeks, and now Wilson was married to him. Obviously, there was a glitch in the system where Wilson was concerned, something in Wilson's psychological makeup that took the signals for 'run away as far and as fast as you can' and mistranslated them as 'quick, marry this guy.'

And people thought House was the one who needed therapy. Wilson was a shrink's wet dream.

As House slowly regained control of himself, Wilson sat upright again and smiled weakly at the judge, who was watching the pair of them with more bewilderment than concern.

"Cold season," Wilson explained like an idiot. "You know how it is, coughs -- uh. What ... attracted me to -- to Greg? Well."

House had almost forgotten Howard's admonition against using each other's surnames. _James_, he thought silently, flinching at the unfamiliar and strangely distant moniker.

He watched as Wilson's hand crept unconsciously to his neck, tugging gently at the knot of his tie. Finally, with the appearance of a man in tremendous pain, he answered. "His ... dedication to his work. His sense of humor -- which, I'll admit, can be somewhat abrasive."

The judge gave a small snort of concurrence and Wilson quickly exchanged a glance of sympathetic solidarity with her, a look that seemed to be the equivalent of a secret handshake or a password for admittance to the International Brotherhood of House Haters. The champion of charm hadn't lost it after all.

Wilson's gaze drifted to House again before turning to the judge. "His mind." Wilson nervously licked his lips. "He's one of the best doctors in the country. He's -- ah, he's brilliant." He looked almost dizzy. "He can also be ... very generous. When it suits him." Wilson shrugged stiffly. "Who knows why two people ... connect?"

House stared at him, dumbstruck, unable to choose between feeling bizarrely pleased with himself and self-conscious at the flattery, even if he knew it was completely insincere. Wilson was good. It almost sounded like he meant it.

"Dr. House," the judge asked, interrupting his reverie, "what attracted you to Dr. Wilson?"

Still gaping at Wilson, who was licking his lips again, House answered, "His stunning charm." At Howard's loud, pointed cough, he stopped staring at Wilson, looked at the floor, and amended his response. "His loyalty."

The answer sounded too close to an admission of the civil union scam, but it was the literal truth. Wilson's unbelievable loyalty -- his willingness to sacrifice just about anything -- was exactly what had brought them together in unholy matrimony. If House was being honest, Wilson's loyalty was also pretty damn attractive in the judge's sense of the term.

"He's ... very smart," House continued awkwardly. "He's funny. He's interesting. Never a dull moment. He's fun. I ... I have more fun with him than anyone else." House glanced over at Wilson and then quickly turned away again. Looking at Wilson and saying nice things about him at the same time was almost impossible. Nearly suffocating with tension, he added, "He makes me smile."

_And he has beautiful eyes._ The last thought actually shocked House into looking at Wilson, who was looking back at him with -- okay, Wilson had nice eyes. So did lots of people. When had he started thinking of any aspect of Wilson as _beautiful_?

Better question: when had he become willing to admit it?

House squirmed uncomfortably in his seat. He looked over at the lawyers, who were watching him with some amazement. Further behind him, a portrait of the President grinned stupidly, as if mocking him.

The judge, at least, was regarding him with barefaced -- if humorous -- respect. "That's very sweet, Dr. House."

He tried very, very hard not to roll his eyes.

"Well," the judge went on, "I guess that's all I need here. Mr. McKenna has requested some further investigation, including a brief home interview conducted by Detective Tritter --"

House bristled. He glanced at Wilson, who looked pathetically horrified. It hadn't taken much for Wilson to stop being Tritter's collaborator and start loathing the cop as much as House did. Wilson had a low tolerance for Tritter's brand of betrayal.

Fortunately, he had a pretty high tolerance for House.

"-- to take place later today at your convenience. Your lawyer may be present," the judge added, nodding at Howard. "I'll evaluate the evidence and make my decision at that time. Gentlemen," she said, smiling thinly and shuffling some of the folders on her desk, "congratulations on your civil union."

Outside in the hallway, McKenna having made his departure, Howard congratulated both of them on their performance.

"That was impressive," he said. "Did you rehearse that?"

"Brilliant and generous?" House scoffed. "Pouring it on a little thick there, weren't you, _James_?"

It was his standard defensive maneuver, but House was surprised when Wilson turned around and shot him a look suffused with anger.

"House --" he started, the false intimacy of 'Greg' forgotten, and then stopped himself, shaking his head. "Forget it." He stormed off down the hallway.

"Why don't you guys take care of this somewhere a little more private," Howard suggested, cautiously edging away. "I'll see you both tomorrow."

House ignored Howard and set off after Wilson, his leg slowing him down as usual and forcing him to raise his voice to make sure Wilson heard him. "What's your _problem_?" he demanded, then lowered his voice: "It worked, didn't it?"

Wilson stopped and barked a dry, humorless laugh. He turned around with his hands on his hips in a posture House knew exasperatingly well. "You wouldn't understand my _problem_."

"Oh, really?" House asked, catching up and stepping deliberately into Wilson's personal space. He might be a cripple, but he still had a few inches on Wilson, and he was going to use them. "A few minutes ago you couldn't stop talking about how brilliant I am."

Wilson set his jaw and stared back, not the slightest bit intimidated. "For a genius, House, sometimes you can be a real idiot." He turned and started to walk away.

"What?" House nearly shouted. "What did I do now?"

Wilson stopped a few feet away and turned around again. "Etiquette 101. Someone says something nice about you, the correct response is not to mock them. Especially," and now Wilson stalked back towards him, lowering his volume while turning up the rage, "when that person is saying those things to keep your ass out of jail."

"Thanks, Miss Manners. In case you hadn't noticed, play-acting time is over. You don't have to lie about how much you adore my supposed virtues and I don't have to pretend to be grateful."

Wilson's eyes weren't looking so pretty now. His glare could have bored holes through concrete. The pinched shape his mouth took on was really unattractive, House thought.

"Maybe it's over for you now, House," Wilson said tightly, "but for me, it's been over for a long time."

House didn't try to stop Wilson when he turned and walked off for the third and final time. He was too busy trying to figure out what the hell that meant. Was Wilson throwing in the towel on the fake civil union just when it appeared to be working? That was alarming.

Unless Wilson was trying to say that he hadn't been pretending when he was rambling about House's redeeming features, which was also alarming, but oddly enticing. House never got tired of picking Wilson's brain, but it looked like things were getting a lot more interesting.


	14. You Definitely Better Get to the Bottom of That

Stupid. House could be an idiot, yes, but not enough of an idiot to fail to translate what he'd just said.

Maybe House would be enough of an idiot to just leave it alone -- to choose to believe that Wilson had really meant all the things he'd said about House's incredible mind and his acerbic sense of humor without understanding what they added up to. Deliberate density was always a possibility. Hell, it had worked just fine for Wilson for years.

It had been an agonizing exercise, telling the world -- or just a small portion of it -- all the things that were attractive about House, even if Howard and the subject himself believed it to be a well-acted farce.

Wilson stepped into the men's room before leaving the building. He splashed water on his face, trying to wash away the heat of anger and discomfort. He wondered if he could get away with avoiding House for the rest of the day. Fat chance of that, though. Where the hell else would he sleep?

His life had become a disaster of nuclear proportions. He was living with his best friend, married to his best friend, wanting to sleep with his best friend, and possibly on the verge of losing his best friend, either to his own inability to keep his mouth shut or to ten years of prison.

"You'd do just about anything for him, wouldn't you?"

Wilson looked up from the sink so quickly he nearly gave himself whiplash. He saw Tritter's reflection in the mirror, leaning against a wall and eying him with predatory amusement. Wilson ground his teeth and addressed the mirror. "I don't think we have anything to talk about."

"He steals your prescription pad," Tritter continued, speaking with the same slow, gritty drawl as ever, "he forges your name, he rejects your attempt to cut him a deal, and he forces you to testify against him. And after all that, you still go through the public humiliation of a gay marriage scam to try and keep him out of prison."

Wilson washed his hands, scrubbing with more force than necessary. "Like I said: nothing to talk about."

Tritter shifted slightly, adjusting his stance. "Unless ... it's not a scam."

Wilson froze for a millisecond. If it were anyone other than Tritter -- or possibly House -- they wouldn't have noticed.

"Maybe it's legitimate," Tritter casually suggested, looking like he was giving serious thought to the idea. "Does he ... give really good head or something?"

Wilson felt his face heating, although he couldn't be sure if it was anger at the insinuation or just the dizzying thought of House giving head, which he immediately suppressed.

"Clever," he snapped, reaching for a paper towel. "Trying to embarrass me into saying that we're not together and the whole thing's a con." He dried his hands and face, tossed the towel in a trash can, and turned around to glare at the cop. "It won't happen."

Tritter was unfazed. "Maybe you _should_ be married to him. He ruins your practice --"

"_You_ ruined my practice," Wilson nearly spat. "Or you tried, anyway."

"-- he almost sends you to prison, and you're still willing to go to the mat for him. That kind of loyalty deserves to be rewarded. Or maybe punished."

"I wouldn't expect you to understand the concept of loyalty. Even keeping your word seems to have eluded you."

Tritter smiled -- or at least showed some teeth. "I'll see you later," he promised, and then spat a wad of nicotine gum in the trash can on his way out the door.

In the end, Wilson had to wash his hands again. Being that close to Tritter made him feel dirty.

* * *

House found him in the clinic that afternoon. Wilson had thought it would be the best place to go to avoid him. It wasn't the last place House would think to look for him, but it was certainly the last place in which House would willingly set foot.

Wilson didn't have to look up when House burst through the exam room door, although his young patient and her mother jumped a little. "Busy," he said mildly.

House was characteristically brusque. "Need to talk to you."

"Can it wait?" Wilson gestured at the child perched on the exam table.

House gave the girl a cursory glance, finding nothing there worthy of his attention, and then continued undaunted. "Tritter and Howard will be at the apartment at three."

It was just after twelve, according to the clock on the wall. "Fine," Wilson said. "I'll be there." He turned back to the patient, who seemed to have lost interest in her swollen glands and was newly fascinated with the rude man still hovering in the doorway. _You and me both, kid_, Wilson thought with a sigh.

He glanced back at House, waiting to be mocked, insulted, humiliated -- outed -- or whatever the psychological torture of the day was. House, though, was watching him not with malice or mischief but with a sober, curious expression. He looked like he was about to say something, but then he closed his mouth and left the room.

"Who was that?" the girl on the exam table chirped.

Wilson thought of all the possible answers to that question. "That was ... another doctor. A friend," he said, grabbing a tongue depressor. "Say _ah_."

He made sure he was back at the apartment at precisely 2:59 so he could be on time while avoiding any awkward moments alone with House. Surrounding himself with patients had worked so far, but House was onto him, and there was no telling what kind of devastation he could wreak if he got Wilson cornered and isolated. With time, maybe House would forget his earlier outburst or simply let it go in the interest of their friendship. Wilson snorted quietly as he parked the car. Right. And maybe House would suddenly take a keen interest in his clinic duties, too.

When he let himself in, he found House, Howard, and Tritter convened in the living room, all standing and staring at each other like participants in a Mexican standoff in some spaghetti western.

"Hi," Wilson said, closing the door behind him and removing his coat. He looked at each of them in turn. House had shed his court clothes and changed into jeans and a t-shirt so threadbare that Wilson immediately felt like a horny teenager again, even under the less than opportune circumstances. Tritter was as coldly calculating as ever, staring at House like he wanted to put him through a paper shredder. Howard had the grace to look merely uncomfortable.

Howard's earlier commandment echoed in Wilson's memory: _you're newlyweds, so act like it_. His feet felt like they were made of lead. 'Hi' wouldn't be nearly enough to fulfill the requirement. Should he hug House? _Kiss_ him? Then again, without planning the stunt ahead of time, House was as likely to punch him in the face as to reciprocate. Better not. Instead, he tried to give House an affectionate smile from across the room. At least he hoped it was an affectionate smile; in his mood, it might have looked more like a grimace.

A young man suddenly came out of the kitchen, holding a camera, and walked down the hallway.

"What --" Wilson started to ask before Tritter cut him off.

"We're collecting photographic evidence," he said. "Proof that there's nothing bona fide about this ... relationship." He said the last part as though it were a disease.

Wilson glanced at Howard, but he didn't appear alarmed by the strange man wandering through the apartment with a camera. Then Wilson looked at House. A muscle in House's jaw twitched. Tension was practically rolling through his body.

Without realizing what he was doing, Wilson walked towards House, needing to calm him somehow -- needing to connect. He tossed his coat over the back of the couch and then reached out and took House's hand, squeezing it firmly.

It was the second time he'd held House's hand in his own that day. Both instances had been unexpected and already the feeling was wonderfully familiar. House's hands were nothing like the women's hands Wilson had known over the years -- and hardly anything like the men's hands, either. They were larger, for one, and stronger, and House had longer fingers, their tips calloused from decades of steel guitar strings.

He flinched when he realized what he was doing. Wanting to sleep with House was one thing, but fetishizing his hands was stepping into obsession.

House must have been surprised, but at least he covered it well. He squeezed Wilson's hand back before doing something utterly unexpected: he released Wilson's hand and slung that arm around Wilson's shoulder, pulling Wilson in for half an embrace.

Later, Wilson would be glad that his body responded with intuitive affection, but at the time, the moment when he wrapped his arm around House's back was probably the most terrifying thing he had ever experienced. Terrifying and perfect. They fit together smoothly, holding onto each other, supporting each other, standing up for each other, and for several blissful seconds, Wilson could forget that this was nothing but a performance. He could forget that the only reason House was letting him get this close was that Tritter was there, watching them scornfully.

"So that's it?" House asked. He squeezed Wilson's shoulder. "That's your interview? Taking pictures of our décor and deciding if it's faggy enough?"

Tritter looked at the pair of them as if his head were about to burst. "I don't need to talk to you to know that you're lying," he sneered. "All of you are liars -- you two, your employees, that boss of yours, the whole damn hospital. You've been lying for years now. You've gotten good at it." Tritter reached into the pocket of his jacket and tore the wrapper off a piece of gum. "But not good enough," he said, popping the gum into his mouth and smiling coldly. "You screwed up with the pills and I know you screwed this up, too. I'm going to find out how. And then I'm going to put you both in prison."

Wilson could feel House's back tense. Unthinkingly he rubbed the tight muscles under his hand, between House's shoulder blades. The tension didn't go away, but House's face seemed to relax, the frustration fading.

The police photographer returned to the living room. "I think I got everything," he said, waving the camera and glancing warily at House and Wilson, each with an arm still around the other.

Tritter kept staring for a moment longer before nodding at the photographer. "Good." He gave House, Wilson, and Howard one last smug look before leaving.

Wilson breathed a sigh of relief and would have released House, put some safe distance between them -- but House didn't seem to be in any real hurry to let go. So he stayed, arm around House's back, for a few seconds longer.

House finally released him when Howard approached them, his smile wan but appreciative. "You handled that better than I expected," he said. "And the place looks nice."

"At least Tritter didn't trash it this time," Wilson said, crossing his arms, already missing House's half-embrace.

"Of course, you'd manage to somehow appreciate yet another invasion of my privacy," House sneered.

The remark shouldn't have stung -- Wilson knew that House wasn't really angry at him -- but it did anyway.

"The judge should be able to reach a decision by tomorrow," Howard said. Wilson was dismayed to find Howard watching him with a strange look on his face, like he was figuring something out. It was uncannily similar to the expression House wore whenever he was studying Wilson, or anyone else for that matter. Of course, House would have made some snide comment or not said anything at all; Howard, who was a better person than either of them, quietly asked, "You okay?"

"Fine," Wilson said, shaking himself out of it. He was just temporarily hypersensitive to House. He'd get over it. He just had to keep it together through the end of the trial, and then he could drop the civil union charade and get the hell away from the source of his madness. He'd stop thinking about House's eyes, and the way House's ass looked in a pair of jeans, and get on with his life.

Howard checked his watch. "I'll let you know if I hear anything," he said, heading for the door.

Wilson felt a twinge of panic. When Howard left, they'd be alone again, and there would be nothing he could do to head off House's curiosity and the inevitable ensuing disaster. "I, uh, have a few patients I have to see," he lied.

House's expression turned a little sour, as if he knew perfectly well that Wilson was lying, but he mercifully didn't call him on it. Wilson left with Howard, realizing as he made his escape that it was only a temporary reprieve. He had screwed up. He'd slipped, and now House was onto him, and if there was one thing Wilson knew about House, it was that he never gave up when there was a puzzle to solve. They were going to have it out whether he liked it or not. The only question was when -- and whether there would be anything to salvage of their friendship after it was over.

* * *

He didn't have patients, but he did have paperwork, and when he ran out of that, the clinic was happy to take him back. He worked until his body reminded him in no uncertain terms that he hadn't had lunch, and then he made his way to the cafeteria, nodding the occasional greeting at the colleagues he passed along the way.

House was damn lucky that Wilson was well-liked around the hospital. House, who had all the social skills of a rattlesnake, would never have been able to garner enough support for the civil union scam on his own. Most of his co-workers would have been glad to see him go down in flames, but with Wilson's fate now tied up in House's, the hospital's loyalties were clear.

Wilson bought dinner and ate at a table by himself. On the other hand, not everyone at Princeton-Plainsboro was okay with what he and House were doing. The hospital had its share of homophobes, just as any place would. Even if everyone understood the civil union to be a scam, there were still some feelings of resentment and distaste.

On the whole, though, the general reaction tended toward bewilderment. Nobody seemed to understand why Wilson would have done this for anybody, let alone for someone like House. Wilson was the only person in the world who understood why, and he couldn't explain his reasons to anyone.

So he ate alone. No big deal. He had the January _Lancet Oncology_ for company. He was perusing a study on reproductive risk factors for ovarian cancer in carriers of BRCA1 or BRCA2 mutations when another tray clattered onto the round table and House dropped into the chair across from him.

"Hi, honey," House said, deadpan.

Wilson stiffened and resisted the urge to look around and make sure no one was watching or listening. "What are you doing back here?" he asked. "You don't have any cases."

House dropped the act instantaneously. "I was bored," he said. "And I was thinking."

Wilson felt his heart sink. Under the circumstances, House thinking was not a good thing. But surely even House wouldn't be cruel enough to start this conversation in the middle of the cafeteria with dozens of coworkers around them. Wilson kept quiet, waiting for House to make a move.

House cleared his throat. "Remember Nurse Cuttler in Radiology?"

After a brief moment of utter confusion, Wilson frowned. "The redhead?"

House rolled his eyes. "Yeah, of course you know her. Anyway," he continued, lowering his voice, "turns out she's dating Dr. Chen, the anesthesiologist."

"Helen Chen? The _female_ anesthesiologist?"

House nodded gravely but his eyes were impish. Wilson smiled. This was what he'd been missing: talks with House that were no more serious than who was sleeping with whom and whether Cuddy had gone up or down a cup size. Stupid gossip that neither of them cared about except for the fact that it was something they could share -- an excuse to drop by the other's office and talk in the middle of the day.

Maybe House had decided to stick with deliberate ignorance, just as Wilson had hoped, to spare them both the trauma of confronting this. He was relieved. Yet part of him -- the reckless, stupid part -- was also disappointed. He was glad that House wasn't going to force the issue ... but maybe he _wanted_ House to force the issue.

They talked for a while about nothing at all -- lesbian nurses, the declining quality of the cafeteria's offerings, how completely fucked the Flyers were this year -- until House's eyes flickered away and his expression turned dark.

Wilson raised his eyebrows and House, under the pretence of scratching his jaw, covered his mouth.

"Don't look," he said in a low voice. "Tritter's here."

Wilson tried not to flinch or turn around. "What's he doing here?" he hissed.

House's eyes flickered away again and then he seemed to reach a decision. A moment later, House was scooting himself and his chair around the table so he could sit next to Wilson, both with their backs to the cop. Wilson looked sideways at House. "What are you doing?"

"Moving so he can't see me talking," House quietly answered.

"There has to be something we can do, someone we can complain to," Wilson said. "This is like being stalked --" He stopped abruptly and sucked in a breath when House leaned in and put his arm around Wilson's shoulder.

"I'm going to leave now," House said in a low voice. His face was set in a look of determination, but his eyes gave him away.

Wilson started to get nervous. "House ..."

"But first," House continued, his pupils slightly dilated, "I'm going to kiss you."

Wilson's mind went completely blank.

"Don't," House whispered, leaning in closer, "freak out."

Then House kissed him on the mouth in the middle of the crowded hospital cafeteria.

To his credit, Wilson didn't freak out -- at least not in the way House had feared. He could imagine House's twisted brain working through the same steps Wilson had gone over earlier: if I kiss him now, with no warning, will he play along or punch me out?

But this wasn't just a performance for Howard, Tritter, and some nameless police photographer in the relative privacy of House's apartment. This was the World Series of public kisses. And if House wasn't quite at first base yet -- no tongues -- then this was at least a hell of an RBI.

To Wilson, it might as well have been a grand slam.

House, of course, had to ruin it. He pulled away slowly, lingeringly, and if Wilson managed to stop himself from following House's warm mouth and rough chin it was only by sheer luck.

House's eyes remained closed for a second before flashing open, limpid and serene.

"Bye, sweetie," House said loudly, with false cheer, and then he launched himself to his feet and left.

Wilson's mouth was still tingling. He slowly became aware that people had been staring. Snippets of conversation were just now being picked up again at the tables around him. Across the room, two of his oncology nurses were still gaping, but they quickly turned away when he caught them looking.

_Well, shit_, he thought, feeling heat creep up the back of his neck. He certainly hoped that Tritter had enjoyed that little show. The hospital grapevine would be whispering about it for weeks, if not months. He just hoped it was worth it. From a legal standpoint, of course.

It was well worth it to him, no matter what happened with the trial.

That night, he returned to the apartment to find House already in his bedroom with the door closed. Wilson understood that for what it was, and he was grateful for it. He brushed his teeth, washed his face, and returned to the couch for another sleepless night.

* * *

They went back to court on Thursday afternoon to hear the fate of the civil union and Wilson's immunity. House was clearly on edge. He was even antsier than usual, playing with his breakfast and tossing the Vicodin bottle back and forth between his hands.

Wilson was anxious, naturally, but probably more than he needed to be. The judge seemed to like them, and she certainly didn't give any indication that she doubted their veracity during the interview. Even Howard had conceded that House's apartment made a convincing scene.

They filed back into the courtroom and took their seats. In front of Wilson, House scooted almost imperceptibly backwards; Wilson sat on the edge of the bench and leaned forwards. He could have reached out and touched House, if he'd been a braver man. As it was, they had barely spoken since the night before in the hospital cafeteria. There didn't seem to be anything safe to talk about. Wilson's comments during the judge's interview were off-limits. The kiss was way off-limits. But if House was moving deliberately closer to him now, their friendship couldn't be completely beyond salvaging. The gesture gave him hope.

The bailiff asked them to rise as the judge ascended to her seat. "I'll make this short," she said. "I've reviewed Mr. McKenna's motion to suspend Dr. Wilson's spousal immunity. Mr. McKenna has claimed that Doctors House and Wilson sought a civil union for the sole purpose of obtaining immunity for Dr. Wilson.

"It's an interesting argument," she admitted, "and not without precedent. However ... after looking at the evidence provided by Detective Tritter, observing Doctors House and Wilson over the last few days, and interviewing them in my chambers, I must say that I have yet to see any indication that the defendant's civil union is in any way farcical or insincere. Idiosyncratic, yes, but not insincere. I have no reason to doubt the defendant's commitment to his spouse, nor vice versa. Their relationship is bona fide and therefore not grounds for dismissing Dr. Wilson's testimonial privilege."

Wilson released a breath he hadn't known he'd been holding and closed his eyes in relief. He didn't have to testify. He didn't have to torture himself over thoughts of perjuring himself, single-handedly sending House to prison, or both.

If he didn't have to testify, House was as good as free. They were both as good as free. Wilson could probably move out now. He'd spend a few days away from House to clear his head and forget what it felt like to have House's mouth covering his own, and then he'd be fine. They would be fine.

"That said," the judge continued, "I'm afraid there's a more important issue at hand. Spousal testimonial privilege does prevent the partners in a marital or civil union from being compelled to testify against one another. But at least in this jurisdiction, that privilege is intended to protect communications, not acts. Additionally, marital privilege is only meant to apply to testimony about communications that took place during the time of the marriage or union.

"Since the union of Doctors House and Wilson took place _after_ the alleged forgeries occurred, I have no choice but to suspend Dr. Wilson's spousal testimonial privilege. Dr. Wilson, you will take the stand on Monday. I'm calling recess until then."

The sound of the gavel was like a gunshot.


	15. Push This Till it Breaks

"He can't testify," Cuddy declared, staring somewhat vacantly at House as he loosened the tie that Howard had demanded he wear to court. He shoved the sleeves of his dress shirt up as far as they would go.

The witness in question had disappeared with Howard shortly after recess was called, looking like a cartoon character who had just glanced down and noticed that he'd run off the side of a cliff. That left Cuddy and House to head for the nearest bar posthaste. His Christmas binge had soured House on the concept of alcohol, but he let Cuddy buy him a beer anyway and watched balefully as she hesitated over the hard liquor options.

"I don't think he's capable of being the person who sends you to prison," Cuddy continued.

"He was ready to send me to rehab."

"That's not the same thing and you know it. He thought he was saving your career. Your _life_. And he was willing to do it even if it meant you'd hate him for the rest of eternity. You know he was willing to go to jail for you?"

House closed his eyes. "I know."

"He was willing to go to jail for you," Cuddy marveled, as if repeating it could make it more believable. She seemed to be talking to herself more than to House. "And you don't care. You have no idea how lucky you are to have someone who cares about you like that."

"I have an idea," House muttered. He had lots of ideas, actually. Wilson loved him, that one was pretty certain. He was still working on the specifics. After all, Wilson loved just about everyone, although probably not enough to go to jail for them -- or to the altar, which might be worse -- so House had some ideas along those lines, too. His ideas were multiplying by the minute. They just weren't ideas he was prepared to discuss over a few drinks with his and Wilson's boss.

A few more drinks by himself, though, and he might be rash enough to do more than just think.

He had kissed Wilson -- and yeah, it had been a stunt, and a desperate one at that, but it wasn't only a stunt. Not anymore. Not after he'd seen Wilson's reaction to it, not to mention his own. He liked Wilson -- more than anyone else in his life. And Wilson was undeniably attractive. It only made sense that kissing him would drive House crazy, just as it only made sense that House, insatiably curious, would want more.

House's team were assembled in his office -- Foreman, in fact, was sitting in his chair -- when he returned to the hospital late that afternoon.

"We heard he has to testify," Foreman said. His tone was guarded but sympathetic.

"Don't you people have work to do?" House asked mildly. "I'm sure I gave you all some sort of fellowship."

Cameron, who was sitting on the other side of the desk, looked at him like she was on the verge of tears. "You cry, you're fired," he added.

"Couldn't you appeal the judge's decision?" Chase asked with detached curiosity, as though they were talking about the trial of a stranger.

"Lawyer's working on something," House said, leaning over Foreman to dig in his desk for a spare bottle of Vicodin. "Seriously, if you don't have anything, why are you still here?"

"We wanted to talk to you," Cameron said.

"And apparently none of us has a social life," Foreman added.

"That's sweet, Foreman." He found the half-empty bottle in a drawer and pocketed it. "Next time, send an e-mail."

Chase and Foreman exchanged a glance. House shut his eyes and wondered whether Howard would be any good at defending him for beating his employees with his cane.

"Thanks," he reluctantly added, realizing only after he'd said it that he actually meant it.

"Is there anything we can do?" Cameron asked, but House shook his head, and the three of them got up to leave.

Before Cameron could follow Foreman and Chase out the door, House stopped her.

"If this thing ... ends badly," he said, "Steve McQueen's going to need a new home."

Cameron frowned in confusion. "What about Wilson?"

"Wilson's not much for nurturing. Besides, who knows how many more wives he'll go through? Steve needs a stable home life."

Cameron's smile was pitiful: gratitude and grief and that schoolgirl adoration she had for him all wrapped up in one. He knew the last few years hadn't been easy on her, but she was at least as pretty as she'd been when he'd hired her. For a moment, he felt sorry for her. Unrequited love sucked.

"Go home," he ordered, and after a sheepish nod, she left.

He rode the bike home, letting the cool winter air bite at his face until it was numb. The minute he stepped through the apartment door, he pulled out the bottle of Vicodin, trying to conjure up the same numbness in the rest of his body and his mind. Wilson was nowhere to be found.

He didn't bother taking off the court clothes he'd been wearing since that morning. He opened a bag of chips and shared them with Steve while they channel surfed. Boredom eventually set in, and he pulled the Strat out of its case for the first time since Tritter trashed his apartment. He plucked at it idly for twenty minutes, shying away from love songs when they crept up on him, before realizing he'd inadvertently stumbled into playing "I Fought the Law."

There was an all too familiar knock at his door. He barked his standard response. He was a cripple and Wilson had a key -- hell, Wilson lived here. When no answer came, and the door didn't swing open, he set the guitar aside and resentfully pushed himself to his feet.

Outside, he found Wilson leaning heavily against the door frame, fumbling in his coat pocket for his key and looking like he, not House, was the one about to be sent to prison for the next decade. Wilson glanced up when the door opened, and House could tell immediately that he was drunk -- _very_ drunk, judging by his disheveled hair and the glazed look in his wide, dark eyes.

Wilson wasn't just drunk, though -- he was also miserable and only barely holding himself together. Wilson looked up at House in a way that he hadn't seen since he'd come out of the induced coma and seen Stacy's face, twisted with shame and fear. House had seen Wilson through divorces, countless breakups, and the occasional near-loss of his job, but never had he seen Wilson so hopeless.

"How did you get here?" House stuck his head out the door and craned his neck to look for the car -- maybe upside-down or wrapped around a light post somewhere nearby. At least it wasn't snowing. "Cab?"

"Can I come in?" Wilson asked weakly, still resting his weight against the door frame.

House stepped back, giving Wilson room to stumble into the apartment. He shut the door and Wilson immediately leaned back against it for support.

"I --" Wilson started, stopped, and then: "House, I --"

Wilson took a hesitant step forward and then grabbed House by his upper arms. House tensed, about to suggest that Wilson find something on which to brace himself that had more than one functioning leg, but the words were hopelessly forgotten as Wilson's hands slid up and under the collar of House's shirt and dragged him into a desperately clumsy, whiskey-flavored kiss.

For several moments, he couldn't think. All he knew was the stark contrast between the heat of Wilson's wide, soft mouth moving against his own and the freezing chill of the rest of Wilson's body. _Hypothermia_, his brain supplied. _Persons suffering from hypothermia may appear disoriented or confused. Kind of like drunk people, House._

He opened his mouth to protest, but all that came out was a low moan before Wilson took the opportunity to lick his way inside.

After a long moment of indecision, he started kissing Wilson back.

He realized he had no idea what to do with his hands. He bravely decided to put his arms around Wilson's back. He was bothered by the cold he found there, draining the heat from his fingers, so he rubbed gently, trying to bring the circulation back to his friend's body. He could feel Wilson getting warmer wherever his hands moved, responding to his touch.

House was responding, too -- god, was he responding. Wilson's tongue stroked his own and then Wilson moaned a little, right into House's mouth. Arousal flared in him. He moved his hands from Wilson's back to his chilled face, covering first his freezing ears and then his cheeks, willing warmth back into his body.

Wilson pulled back slightly and House sucked in an anxious breath and jerked his hands away. What a fuckup. What kind of guy took advantage of a friend like this? But then Wilson's head dropped forward, his forehead coming to rest heavily on House's shoulder. "I'm sorry," he mumbled, holding onto House's forearms for balance.

"No," he said quietly, trying not to let frustration get the best of him, "I'm sorry. You've been drinking. You don't know what you're doing ..."

Wilson laughed. At least House thought it was supposed to be a laugh. It sounded more like choking. "Not that," he mumbled. "Not sorry about that."

"What are you --" House shut up abruptly as Wilson's began stroking his fingers up and down House's left forearm, from the pulse of House's wrists to the edge of his rolled-up sleeve. Wilson's thumb slid over the still-vivid red marks from when House had been off the Vicodin. He brushed the open palm of House's hand with soft fingertips.

Then Wilson's fingers moved to undo the topmost button on House's shirt.

The panic came back quickly, in the span of a heartbeat, and in precise terms: _we cannot do this now_. With a complete lack of finesse that Wilson failed to notice, House stepped aside, breaking their contact.

He practically frog-marched Wilson to the couch -- no easy feat with his leg. Wilson was mumbling, repeating "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," over and over until House finally had to tell him to shut up. He sat Wilson down and ordered him to stay on the couch, which Wilson agreeably did, throwing an arm over his eyes to block out the lamplight.

House grabbed his cane and went to the kitchen, where he filled a glass with water before bringing it back to Wilson, whose apologies had gone silent and whose breath had evened out. He had fallen asleep.

House set the glass on the coffee table, moved Wilson's pillow to the end of the couch, and carefully tried to shift Wilson's heavy form, ostensibly into a more comfortable position. He didn't bother removing Wilson's coat or shoes. Wilson was a big boy and he could handle his own damn footwear. Not to mention that Wilson might want to make a hasty escape when he came to and realized what had happened -- probably by running all the way to the next county, or maybe the next state.

House pulled the blanket over him. He gave Wilson one last, long look, and with nothing else to do, went to bed.

* * *

A creak in the floorboards woke him and he blinked frantically in the darkness, adrenaline rushing through his body. He was able to make out only a Wilson-sized shape shuffling its way towards the bed.

A moment later, he felt the mattress dip slightly.

A moment after that, he felt one of Wilson's arms reach across his chest, enveloping him in an awkward embrace, followed by Wilson's chin settling just above his shoulder.

House froze, eyes wide, trying not to breathe. Some part of him felt the urge to shove Wilson away, to tell him to get lost, but that part lost out to several other parts, which had very different thoughts on the issue.

There was a quiet snuffling noise and the soft brush of what was probably Wilson's nose against his neck. "Scoot over," Wilson mumbled, and House, having suddenly become the world's biggest sucker, did just that. He shifted a couple of inches, but wondered what the point of it had been when Wilson came scooting right with him, reclaiming his position around -- and partly on top of -- House's body.

He felt rather than saw Wilson reach for the blanket that House had kicked aside. Wilson pulled it over both of them before settling right back down into House's personal space again and falling deeply, immovably asleep.

Wilson smelled like alcohol, and a little like sweat -- clean sweat, the kind that wasn't unappealing on some people. To House's annoyance Wilson turned out to be one of those people. His arm across House's chest was heavy but not uncomfortably so. House noticed that even drunk and half-asleep, Wilson had been careful to avoid jostling House's leg. This suggested that he wasn't sleep-walking.

House quietly cataloged these facts and entered them in his mental Wilson file. He considered making a change in the file regarding his presumptions about Wilson's sexual orientation ("serial heterosexual, eats neediness like a fat kid eats cake"), but it was next to impossible to make that call on so little evidence. Gay, bisexual, or just cuddly? House couldn't think about it, not yet, not _now_, not with Wilson's warm, boozy breath tickling his neck and his own stupid, contrary dick getting harder by the second.

God was punishing him. No, _Wilson_ was punishing him, and unlike God, Wilson had some justification, although House wasn't sure he'd really done enough bad things to Wilson to deserve this kind of hell. He would just have to lie there quietly and take it like a man -- not _that_ way, he thought angrily, slamming his eyes shut and trying to think sexless thoughts.

* * *

He woke up alone and in pain. Neither was out of the ordinary, although the first one sucked a little more than usual that morning. He dry-swallowed a pill and listened to the telltale sound of the shower running. He considered closing his eyes and pretending to be asleep until Wilson cleaned himself up and scrammed -- but they knew each other's defense mechanisms better than anyone. It would take Wilson all of one whole second to see through that guise.

Instead, he went to the kitchen and made breakfast -- at breakfast time, with real eggs, on his day off -- and the fact that that wasn't even in his top five "weirdest things that have happened in the last twenty-four hours" was pretty damn sad.

Ten minutes later, Wilson leaned in the doorway and said, "We need to talk."

House glanced up from the frying pan but quickly looked down again. Wilson was -- god, Wilson was almost _indecent_. Hair wet and disheveled from the shower, a single drop sliding down the side of his neck to dampen the collar of his thin white undershirt, and -- fuck it if Wilson wasn't wearing a pair of _his_ shorts. House almost snapped the question, _who told you you could sort through my underwear?_ but he settled for scowling at the sizzling egg and trying to hide what a ridiculous turn-on it was. Couldn't Wilson have at least put his damn pants on before he turned House's entire life upside down?

"What's there to talk about?" House tossed out with what he hoped was indifference.

From the doorway came the steely-voiced reply: "Don't do this."

"Don't do what?" He focused on the eggs and tried to ignore the pounding in his chest. "Stop you before you do your thing, your never-ending head shrinking bullshit?"

He didn't have to look at Wilson to know the shot had hit its mark. He'd snapped at Wilson for analyzing him a thousand times before, and Wilson had routinely done him the same favor, but House wasn't stupid. Wilson's barriers were down -- in fact, House suspected they'd been completely and permanently dismantled. When Wilson's reply came quietly, tiredly, House knew he'd been right. "I shouldn't have come here last night."

"I'll say," he went on, wishing he could just shut himself up for one minute. "You seem to be under the impression that this civil union crap is serious. Sorry, Jimmy, no conjugal duties with a fake marriage."

"I should have stayed the hell away from you. I thought I'd -- why do you have to complicate _everything_?"

House's head snapped up -- but again, the sight of a clean Wilson, wearing House's boxers and probably smelling like his soap -- was too much. "_You_ kissed _me_," he said, taking a spatula to the egg like someone digging a grave.

"You kissed me first," Wilson argued.

"That was different. And you climbed into _my_ bed!"

Wilson, damn him, was quiet for so long that House eventually had to look up to see if he was still in the room. He was, and he was watching House. When their eyes met, Wilson quickly looked away, and then looked back again, his gaze intense. "I didn't get the impression that you minded any of it."

House stared back at him, egg forgotten. His tongue felt trapped in his mouth.

Wilson's stare eventually softened into something more sympathetic. More vulnerable. "House," he said quietly.

"What do you want me to say?" He felt completely pathetic.

Wilson swallowed. "Anything."

"No," he said. "I didn't mind."

Wilson nodded slowly, like he expected the answer but found it overwhelming just the same. House watched, hypnotized, as Wilson's tongue crept out to wet his lips. He kept watching as Wilson stepped forward, advancing on him with raw determination and terror in his eyes. "You were saying something about ... conjugal duties?"

It suddenly occurred to House, in words as clear and crisp as church bells: _he's going to kiss me again. And I'm going to love it. And then I'm not going to be able to stop this._ It was like stepping out of an airplane, like going into free-fall. It was like washing down thirty oxycodone over twenty-four hours with whiskey and seeing everything unwind itself before him -- but the other end of this path wasn't an end at all.

Then Wilson _didn't_ kiss him. Wilson, in fact, stopped just short of kissing him, standing in front of him with all the intent and none of the delivery. House watched him lick his lips again. "I'm not usually this ... tense," Wilson said.

House blinked. Tense? Wilson looked like he was about to go into cardiac arrest. House had watched Wilson charm his way into a lot of people's pants over the years, but never like this.

"It's just ... it's not usually this ... important," Wilson explained softly. Then he reached up, cupped the back of House's neck in his hand, and kissed every last sensible thought away.

He did smell like House's soap.

"Egg," House managed to mumble against Wilson's mouth a few minutes later. "Burning."

Wilson pulled his mouth back and turned off the stove without even looking at it.


	16. I'm Hitting That and It's Totally Hot

When he'd thought about sleeping with House -- thoughts he'd been having a lot lately -- he'd always figured House would be a pushy son of a bitch. He'd expected manipulation, guilt trips, and incessant mockery before, during, and after. All of that was conditional, of course, on actually getting House into bed in the first place, which Wilson imagined would be something very much like wrestling a bear, with roughly the same risk of being killed and eaten.

He'd been wrong. He'd been so, so wrong.

House went quietly but willingly, almost enthusiastically, and he didn't make a single smart-ass or insulting comment. He didn't freak out once, although he came close when Wilson dropped to his knees to undo House's pants. Wilson didn't care. It wasn't House's thigh he was focused on, and even later, with the whole naked, aroused expanse of House under him, Wilson could barely manage to tear his gaze away from House's eyes. House wrapped his arms around Wilson's back, slid his fingers through Wilson's hair and kissed with obsessive concentration, and he let Wilson slide their cocks together until they were both messy with sweat and come.

Coming down from the high, Wilson lay on his side next to House. He was slightly embarrassed to find himself still shaking, pressing his half-open mouth to House's neck, his collar, the rough stubble of his unshaven jaw, until House turned his face away and muttered, "You really will sleep with anything, won't you?"

It was sort of a relief. He'd been starting to wonder if someone had abducted the real House and replaced him with a physically identical but sexually suspect impostor. "That's not a very nice thing to say to the guy offering you orgasms on a routine basis," Wilson said mildly, leaning on one elbow and, after some effort, keeping his hands and mouth to himself.

"You don't have to put out to make up for sending me to prison," House quietly sneered. "It's okay. I forgive you."

Wilson sat up, suddenly irritated. "No," he said. "You do not get to 'forgive' me for doing something that _you_ forced me to do in the first place. And I'm not doing this to 'make up' for anything." _Except lost time, maybe_, but he wasn't up to hearing House make fun of him for that one just yet, so he kept it to himself. "This isn't an apology and it's not random. I've ... been thinking about this for a while."

House was silent. Then he turned to look pointedly at Wilson. "Towels are in the bathroom," he said, gesturing at their combined mess on his abdomen.

Wilson almost told him to get one himself before realizing that House probably _couldn't_ \-- not without the cane, which had been left in the kitchen when House wouldn't take his hands off Wilson long enough to grab it. Even if House could limp to the bathroom by himself, there was no way he'd subject himself to what he'd see as a total humiliation in front of Wilson.

Angry at him, and for him, Wilson gave House a dark look before leaning down and kissing him hard on the mouth. House didn't push him away; in fact, he responded readily, which Wilson noted for future use. House didn't seem to be able to formulate excuses or insults when his mouth was otherwise occupied.

Wilson went to get a towel.

"So what is this, then?" House demanded when he returned, and although his tone was cruel, Wilson couldn't help noticing the appreciative way House's eyes roamed over his body. He was holding the bottle of Vicodin and he tipped one into his mouth before setting it aside. "It's not an apology; it's not just boredom -- is this the prison orientation session? A prep course in situational homosexuality?"

Wilson chucked the towel at him, hitting him directly in the face. "I'm just going to start ignoring you whenever you're being a jackass to me," he said, searching for the boxers he'd filched from House's dresser. They'd been discarded somewhere between the kitchen and House's bed.

"Wilson."

He turned around to find House looking at him from the bed with an expression of pained longing -- a feeling with which Wilson was too familiar. House picked up the towel. "Thanks," he said. When Wilson kept staring, waiting for whatever House _really_ wanted to say, House eventually jerked his head in the universal "come here" gesture.

Wilson cautiously sat on the far edge of the bed. House gestured for him to come closer; Wilson briefly raised his eyes heavenward and then lay on his side, facing House.

For a guy who couldn't take ten steps without leaning on something, House moved fast. He rolled over and pinned Wilson under him before Wilson could do anything but yelp in surprise.

House rested his forehead against Wilson's for a moment before saying, "I appreciate the lengths you're willing to go to, to make this whole civil union thing believable, but I think it's kind of a moot point now."

"Well, you know me," Wilson whispered. "Can't just let anything go."

"Lucky for me," House agreed.

* * *

Cuddy had given both of them the day off -- which, in Wilson's admittedly biased opinion, meant they had nothing else to do but lie around naked for as long as possible. It would make it far easier for them to distract themselves from thoughts of the trial and Wilson's upcoming testimony.

"Cancel whatever plans you had for today," he murmured, licking the shell of House's ear.

House groaned and his hands gripped Wilson's shoulder blades. "You got better ones?"

"Yes," Wilson said to the stubble on House's neck.

"Better than _General Hospital_ and masturbation?"

Wilson chuckled and bit the space between House's neck and his shoulder, mainly to hear House's gasp. "I think you'll be happy with what I have in mind. Or if 'happy' is too much to ask of you, I'll settle for satisfied."

He fetched the cane from the kitchen and silently handed it over so House could make it to the shower, then he returned to the kitchen to make an actual breakfast. They would both need food if he was to have the slightest hope of doing half the things he wanted to do to House. And if he made the pancakes House was so crazy for, he might even get a blow job out of it.

* * *

They ended up watching _General Hospital_ and getting off after all -- not at the same time, of course. Sonny was ordering a hit on someone when Wilson, who lacked House's extreme appreciation for soap operas, turned the TV off and stuck his hand down House's pants.

House's protest turned into a sigh of pleasure that threatened to become a moan as Wilson's hand found House's cock. He used his unoccupied hand to hold House's face still for a kiss, swallowing House's exhalations as House grew hard in his hand and pushed into his grip.

"I want to suck you," Wilson muttered before he could think seriously about it, but the spontaneity was worth it for House's reaction, which was to jerk violently and grab Wilson's wrist -- the one attached to the hand attached to House's dick.

"Not ... yet," House gasped, stilling the motion of Wilson's hand. "Maybe we should move this to the bed."

"No," Wilson said, sliding off the couch and crawling between House's spread legs. "Let's do it here."

House got very quiet when Wilson tugged his pants and shirt just enough out of the way to tongue his navel. He stopped being quiet when Wilson slid his mouth over House's cock.

House muttered "god," threw his head back, and clawed futilely at the smooth leather of his couch. When Wilson squeezed the base of House's cock and sucked hard at what remained, House rolled his neck and stared down at him, glaze-eyed and slack-jawed. Wilson glanced up, mouth stretched and swollen, and latched onto the blue of House's eyes.

House arched his back, stiffened, and came hard down Wilson's throat.

Wilson held him in his mouth until House shuddered and tried to push him away. Then he clambered back onto the couch, his knees and back aching. This had been a lot easier fifteen years ago. "Now we can go to bed," Wilson said, watching House pull his pants up.

"Not unless you've got some sort of crane to get me there," House mumbled.

Wilson grinned, feeling stupidly pleased with himself, and decided to wait. He could afford to wait. "So. Talk to me."

"About what?"

"Anything," he said. He knew it was a risk, but blowing House on the sofa had made him feel adventurous. Knowing how little time they had before Monday made him feel even more so. "I just like the sound of your voice."

House, contrarily, shut right up. "You're such a girl," he eventually said, but Wilson knew he wasn't imagining that House sounded pleased.

"Tell me a story."

"Never was a fan of campfire stories."

"So tell me an episode of _The O.C._, then."

For a minute, House was quiet, and Wilson started to wonder if he'd been asking too much, too fast. He was about to defuse the tension, to tell House that it didn't matter, when House suddenly started talking.

"When I was seventeen, we lived on the Parris Island base," he said quietly. "It was a training station for recruits. My father and I ... had reached a boiling point. You think I'm insufferable when it comes to authority figures now, you should have seen me at seventeen."

Wilson smiled, imagining a teenage House -- all the same arrogance and invincibility, less of the baggage and hurt. "I wish I'd known you at seventeen."

House smiled indulgently, briefly, but the moment was too quickly gone. "My father didn't understand me. I know every teenager thinks their parents don't understand them, but my father ... I was not what he wanted in a son."

Wilson looked on sympathetically.

"He wanted a football-playing drinking buddy. I was incomprehensible to him. And he had begun to suspect ... that I wasn't interested in girls. He was wrong, incidentally. I was interested in girls. Just not exclusively." House cast Wilson a sidelong glance before continuing. "Most people, when someone calls them a fag, their instinct is to go out and prove that person wrong. Prove their manliness."

"But you are not most people," Wilson observed.

"So I've been told. In any case, my instinct was the opposite. And as it turns out, on a training base for new Marine recruits, there's no shortage of opportunities for that kind of thing."

Wilson smirked. "Now I really wish I'd known you at seventeen. So you had some Marine boyfriends?"

"No," House corrected, "but I did give some blow jobs behind the barracks."

Wilson was momentarily speechless -- and painfully turned on. He would have bet anything that House as a teenager was just as cocky and self-assured as the adult. That headstrong, rebellious youthful version of his friend -- sneaking around behind military barracks, on his knees in the grass, just waiting to get caught -- he couldn't think about it for long without feeling like some dirty voyeur. But knowing House, that was the whole reason he'd told the story in the first place.

"Did he ever catch you? Your father?"

"No. He'd have beaten the shit out of me, shipped me off to military boarding school. That wasn't the point. Just me, knowing what I was doing, knowing what he'd think if he knew -- that was enough."

Wilson inhaled deeply and sighed. He looked expectantly at House. "Have you ... done it since then?"

"Not since before Stacy. After Stacy ..." He gestured at his right leg, like it explained everything -- and for House, it did.

Wilson shifted on the couch, adjusting himself quickly. "Would you ... like to do it again?"

House gave him a faintly amused look.

"I promise I'm getting more out of that story than just the fact that you've done this before," Wilson assured him. That much was true; House never talked about his relationship with his father -- let alone his secret past as a teenage cocksucker -- and the fact that he felt comfortable enough with Wilson to open up that way made Wilson feel a rush of affection. "It's just ... hard to focus on the other parts right now."

House's gaze dropped to Wilson's lap and his smile widened. "I haven't sucked dick in twenty years. You sure you want to subject yourself to that?"

"Yes," Wilson said quickly, nodding for emphasis. "Very sure."

"Might want to move to bed."

"I'll get a crane."

As it turned out, he didn't need a crane, and fifteen years of downtime had done nothing to degrade House's oral prowess. Wilson should have known better. Anyone who sucked on as many lollipops and dry-swallowed as many pills as Greg House had to know his way around a cock.

Wilson sat at the head of the bed while House lay between his legs and sucked him off with agonizing sweetness. Wilson talked him through it, or maybe just babbled at him, soft encouraging things that House didn't seem to mind hearing. Wilson watched his own dark erection sliding in and out of House's mouth, stroked House's face and muttered, "God, it's good, it's so good -- you're amazing, you're --" until he lost it completely and couldn't form even simple phrases anymore.

If House wanted to make fun of him for it later, it was worth it.

* * *

Wilson refused to put his clothes on afterward, or would have refused, if House had expressed any desire for him to do so. But he felt silly with House fully dressed -- or as "fully dressed" as a man in a t-shirt and useless running pants could be -- lying next to him, so he tried to get House out of his clothes. A coma patient would have been more helpful.

"You're going to have to get naked again sometime," Wilson said as House knocked his hand away for the third time.

"Make me," House said childishly.

"That's what I'm trying to do. What is your problem?"

In retrospect, he was lucky that didn't provoke an outburst from which they might never have recovered. Instead, House simply gave him a long, exhausted, withering stare before closing his eyes in defeat.

"I'm an oncologist," Wilson said more cautiously, soothingly. "I've seen surgical scars."

House's only response was to roll onto his side, facing away.

Wilson sighed in resignation and inched closer. He reached a tentative hand out to touch House's shoulder. "I know this can't be easy for you."

"You have no idea what it's like to be crippled, disfigured, and cursed with a lifetime of pain all in one fell swoop," House muttered.

If Wilson knew House -- and he hoped that, just maybe, he did -- then that was an invitation. So he took it, settling down with his chest against House's back and one arm wrapped around him from behind. "You're not exactly Quasimodo lurking in the bell tower," he said. "You have some scars on your leg. It hurts when you walk. It sucks. But ..." Wilson fell quiet for a moment. "I like looking at you. Is that such an awful thing?"

"If you value your corneas, maybe."

"Don't give me that. You know damn well how good you look. I've seen you do that thing with your eyes whenever you want a nurse to let you get away with something. It used to work on Cuddy before she caught on to what a manipulative jerk you are." He shrugged. "And you still have no problem attracting pretty, young immunologists."

"What about pretty, young oncologists?"

Wilson snorted. "Do you know any? Of course, now you have much better ways to con me into doing things."

* * *

Later, Wilson had to pick up his car -- which was not, as House had suggested, stuck in a ditch, but merely waiting at Howard's office, a few blocks away from the bar where he'd worked so hard at drinking himself unconscious the night before.

"Cool," House said, handing Wilson his helmet.

"Uh, no," Wilson declined, handing the helmet right back.

"Come on," House said with a deliberately irritating whine.

"It's twenty degrees outside! And you have a car! A highly expensive car, even!"

"Bike's more fun."

Wilson frowned. "I thought the car was fun. And the car's a lot safer. Which I guess is why you bought a two-wheeled organ donation machine to drive, instead."

"Killjoy," House muttered.

A few minutes later, as House was backing the Corvette out, Wilson added, "Besides, if you die in a motorcycle accident, how are you going to be able to fuck me later?"

House slammed on the brakes, which made an exciting squealing noise. His face was red and priceless. "I'm gonna crash this car," he said, to which Wilson could only laugh with the sort of dizzy, expectant exhilaration he hadn't felt in a very long time.

* * *

There were messages on the answering machine for both of them when they returned. The first was Cuddy, apologetically calling House in for a consult on some important donor's dying relative. An apologetic Cuddy was unusual enough that they had to joke about it for a while, and then House smiled, revealing the dimples he normally hid, which made Wilson slightly crazy, so he had to stick his tongue in House's mouth, which took a few more minutes of their time.

The second message was from Howard, excessively formal and instantly depressing:

"Dr. House, this is Howard calling for Dr. Wilson. I haven't been able to reach him on his cell phone and I was wondering if you knew an alternate number for him. Get back to me."

Wilson pulled his hand out from under the back of House's shirt. "Go save your rich guy," he said, reluctantly, and then moaned a little as House carefully bit his earlobe.

"Think of all the rich guys who are going to die once they lock me up," House said.

Any kind of pep talk would have been idiotic. House had absolutely no reason to believe that he'd be able to keep his license and his freedom. Even if that wasn't Wilson's fault, he still felt the same guilt as he watched House leave for the hospital.

His conversation with Howard was brief and depressing. Afterwards, Wilson tried and mostly failed to keep himself busy around House's apartment, cleaning what he could. He fed the rat, did the dishes, and made the bed.

Finally, with nothing else to do, he went to Princeton-Plainsboro.

House was holding forth at the table in his conference room when Wilson walked by. He stopped just outside the glass door and watched quietly for a minute, observing as House bantered with his team, his face going through the tell-tale signs of thoughtfulness, annoyance, sarcasm, mockery and finally more pensive meditation. House at work should not have been that sexy. The knowledge that House might not have much longer to keep working made Wilson's chest ache.

The staccato click of heels on linoleum broke through his reverie. Cuddy approached with a sympathetic but confused expression on her face. "What are you doing here?" she asked.

Wilson shrugged and answered her honestly. "I was lonely."

Cuddy gave him a look she usually reserved for House at his most exasperatingly idiotic moments. "Okay," she said slowly, "but why are you hovering in the hallway?"

Wilson realized there was nothing he could say that wouldn't be taken the wrong way -- or the right way, as it happened. A moment later, he realized it was already too late to say anything. Cuddy was looking at him with her own brand of shrewd suspicion, and then they both glanced into the conference room to see that House had noticed their presence and was staring at Wilson --

"Oh my God," Cuddy whispered. "You can't be serious."

"Don't," Wilson begged.

"It was _just_ a _joke!_" she hissed.

Trying to avert a scene, Wilson took Cuddy by the elbow and steered her to the nearest elevator.

"Are you out of your mind?" Cuddy demanded as soon as the doors closed on them.

"What? What have I done that's so wrong?"

Cuddy raised her hands as though she might start tearing her hair out or strangling Wilson. This was probably how House felt during most of his meetings with Cuddy. Wilson took a step back, just to be safe. "You slept with him!"

The elevator dinged and released them on the first floor, where Wilson made a beeline for Cuddy's office without another word. Behind closed doors again, Cuddy let loose.

"What is _wrong_ with you? How is this in any way helpful?"

Wilson rubbed the back of his neck and looked down at his shoes. "Well, it makes _me_ happy," he offered.

"You're his only friend. What do you think is going to happen to him when you find wife number four? Or would it be number five now?"

"Your faith in me is really touching," Wilson said, unconsciously putting his hands on his hips. He knew he didn't have the best track record when it came to romance. Was there anyone in the entire state of New Jersey who _didn't_ know that he sucked at marriage? Still, now that the not-unfamiliar jabs were in reference to House, they seemed to hurt more.

There was another issue at hand of more pressing concern. "Was it really that obvious?"

Cuddy walked to her desk and, throwing her hands up in surrender, slumped into her chair. "No," she said. "I've just known you both for too long. Oh, god ..."

"Look, can we keep this quiet?" Wilson pleaded. "We've barely talked about it."

Cuddy pursed her lips. "Nothing happens at work. And you don't let it interfere with your jobs. If I hear about anything, and I do mean _anything_ out of line, I will have both of you in here so fast it'll make your head spin."

"I _am_ capable of being a professional," Wilson said, a little hurt by that comment, too.

"Yeah, but is _he_?"

"Point taken," he admitted, turning for the door.

"Wilson."

He turned around and shut the door again. Cuddy's face had softened to a look of concern.

"You know what he was like after Stacy," she said. "He won't survive that again. Don't hurt him."

Wilson smiled weakly, sickly. "I don't see how I could hurt him any more than by sending him to jail."

* * *

The conference room was empty when Wilson returned, but the blinds were drawn in House's office. He knocked once, softly, and then opened the door.

House was sitting in the chair nearest the door, legs stretched out on the footrest and crossed at the ankles. "You really need a hobby," he said by way of greeting.

"Cuddy knows," Wilson answered, his own form of greeting. He let the door close behind him.

"Yeah, I figured. Way to keep it on the DL, Wilson."

"Actually, I think you're as much responsible for it as I am. She didn't say anything until she caught you making googly eyes at me from your office."

House opened his mouth in shock. "I do not make 'googly eyes' at anyone," he protested.

"I've been around the block a time or two, and I think I know googly eyes when I see them."

Wilson watched as House failed to prevent himself from smiling. House moved his legs to the floor, freeing the footrest for Wilson.

"On the other hand," Wilson said, sitting down, "she'll probably never barge into either of our offices again without knocking."

"That is a plus," House acknowledged, sitting upright so their faces were in close proximity.

"How's your patient?"

"He'll live. How was the lawyer?"

Wilson closed his mouth. Howard was really a nice guy. It was a shame that any mention of him automatically meant thoughts of the trial, an instant good-mood killer. "Fine."

Misery must have been some sort of aphrodisiac for House. He was looking at Wilson's mouth with studious contemplation. House's hand came up to hold the back of Wilson's neck, just above his collar, and then House tugged him forward and pressed their lips together. For a moment it was a chaste kiss, but if there was one thing Wilson knew about House, it was that he was anything but chaste.

House shifted, pulling Wilson closer, coaxing Wilson's mouth open with an exploratory tongue, scratching him with the rough stubble that never seemed to go away these days. Wilson was going to have beard burn. He shivered. A day ago, he'd been certain that he and House were finished for good, even as friends, and now they were making out in House's office. In three days, he'd be sending House to prison. Life was strange.

House pulled away just far enough to speak. "Oh, _James_," he muttered dryly. The name sounded so ridiculous coming from House that Wilson laughed out loud.

House sucked Wilson's lower lip for a moment before adding, "All your wives called you that, huh?"

"Yes, they did," Wilson agreed, trying not to sound as breathless as he felt.

House slid a hand up from Wilson's neck and tangled it possessively in his hair, holding him still. "_Wilson_," he said quietly.

It wasn't a question, but Wilson answered him anyway. He gripped House's biceps and hauled him forward, claiming his mouth the way House had claimed the rest of him, body and mind. Yes, they had this thing -- this new, exciting, pornographic thing -- but really, had anything changed? House was still House and Wilson was still Wilson, roughly the same people they'd been for the last twelve years, if a little older and more damaged. Sex with House couldn't change who they were and what they meant to each other. Wilson wouldn't have wanted it to.

"Why did you come here?" House asked, pulling away again. His face was relaxed and his eyes looked nearly violet in the light.

"Like you said, I need a hobby. I was thinking about taking up crocheting. Unless you have a better idea about how I could spend my time."

"I'm brilliant," House reminded him. "I've always got a better idea."

* * *

They spent the rest of the weekend working when they had to and spending the remaining time in bed, trying desperately to forget about Monday. Messages piled up on the answering machine, but House stubbornly refused to answer them.

On Sunday night, plagued by thoughts of the trial and unable to sleep, Wilson turned to House and said, "This was a mistake."

Even in the dark, even with House's long practiced skills in masking his feelings, Wilson knew how House was reacting. "No," he said, putting a hand on House's arm. "I don't regret it. But if you were just a friend, then maybe doing this wouldn't feel like ... cutting off a limb."

"Sometimes you don't have a choice," House said quietly. "And it wasn't a mistake. You think your feelings have changed? Your sense of obligation? This doesn't change anything. It would have been hard no matter what happened here this weekend."

Wilson was silent, thinking about it, when House added, "Tell them the truth."

Just thinking about it felt like drowning. Without answering, he rolled over and tried to sleep.


	17. Nice Audible, Peyton

Wilson was good in bed. Amazing, actually, which shouldn't have come as a surprise. There had to be some reason Wilson had slept with more women than anyone else House had ever met.

They were late to court on Monday, after their first attempt to get out of bed was thwarted by House's wandering hands. Something about Wilson sleeping, his naked body laid out like a buffet table -- whatever. House wasn't going to apologize. Besides, Wilson had had more than enough opportunities to turn him down.

Thirty minutes later, they embarked on attempt number two. They barely had time to shower and eat breakfast before heading soberly out the door, House with his untied tie draped loosely around his neck.

The drive was silent. It wasn't until they pulled into a parking spot that House worked up the nerve to ask Wilson what he intended to do. With Wilson at his most inscrutable, House had no idea what would happen. Telling the truth -- that Wilson hadn't written those prescriptions -- was the only sane, logical choice. But if this weekend had taught House nothing else, he at least knew now that Wilson was, to put it nicely, batshit insane. Hot, clever, and amazing in the sack, but totally crazy. Would Wilson get on the stand and try to lie? Three days ago, House would have said no way. Now, he wasn't so sure.

Wilson turned the car off and put both hands on the steering wheel. He was quiet. "I don't know," he admitted without looking at House.

"Don't," House said, but Wilson still wouldn't look at him. "Don't perjure yourself. It's not worth it."

Wilson got out of the car. House grabbed his cane and quickly followed.

"I need to know," he continued as they walked side by side through the front doors of the building. "I have to know what you're going to say up there."

Getting desperate, House grabbed Wilson's wrist and pulled him aside, into a corner of the building with only light foot traffic. "Have you even thought about this?"

Wilson laughed once, weakly. "Besides sex, I haven't been able to think of anything else all weekend."

"You know it's not worth it to commit perjury. They'll nail you to the wall."

"You mean _you're_ not worth it," Wilson said, shaking his head. "House, when are you going to learn?"

"Tell me," House demanded, but Wilson was already turning his head, refusing to look him in the eye. "Tell me you're not going to lie up there. Tell --" Wilson tried to pull away, but House grabbed him by the shoulders and held him still. "Tell me. Promise me."

"I can't," Wilson said, very softly. "I can't promise that." His gaze drifted down to House's neck. "Your tie," he said, reaching for it, threading the silk through his fingers and knotting it carefully.

Demands having failed him, House summoned the willpower to beg. "Please," he said.

Wilson wouldn't look at him. He glanced around them once, and then leaned in quickly to kiss House on the mouth. "We have to go," he said, straightening his own tie, and led House into the courtroom.

* * *

"State your name and occupation for the court, please."

"James Wilson. I'm the head of oncology at Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital."

House realized how pathetic his posture must look when Cuddy, taking her usual seat in the row behind the defense table, reached forward to put a hand on his shoulder. He turned to acknowledge her with a small nod; she responded with a weak upward turn of her mouth that only the most generous observer could have described as a smile.

House deliberately angled his body to avoid having to see Tritter, who was right back in his usual spot on the opposite side of the courtroom. Part of him feared that the cop's leering, gloating grin might drive him to homicide. He'd never known he could feel this protective. Maybe it was all the sex-related endorphins. Whatever the cause, the idea of Tritter taking pleasure in Wilson suffering on the witness stand made House want to beat the cop to death with his cane.

"And are you the primary care physician for Greg House?"

Wilson didn't hesitate. "I was his primary for pain management until the nature of our relationship changed."

McKenna smirked at the odd phrasing but let it go. "Pain management. What does that entail?"

"House experiences chronic neuropathic pain due to an infarction in his leg that happened several years ago. I prescribe medication to alleviate that pain and allow him to function normally." Wilson gave House a quick glance that he could unmistakably read as _or at least as 'normal' as anyone can expect from you_.

McKenna faked confusion. "That's a lot of medical language, Dr. Wilson. Can you explain it in layman's terms?"

Wilson shifted and looked nervously at House. House himself had told this story publicly only a single time in the years since the infarction, and even then he'd buried it under layers of protective nonsense, making it nearly unidentifiable as his. He'd completely omitted Wilson from the tale. Of course, he'd relived it privately thousands of times: in dreams, in nightmares, in pointless but ever-present fantasies of what could have happened if he'd just figured it out an hour or two earlier -- if he'd paid closer attention -- if he'd been strong enough to withstand the pain, if he hadn't asked to be put under -- if Cuddy, or Wilson, or anyone but Stacy had been his proxy ...

Wilson had to have experienced the same playback of the infarction. Stacy did. Even Cuddy, in a long-ago moment of vulnerability, had told House that she thought about it more often than she cared to.

Wilson described how House had been admitted to the hospital and the series of doctors who had failed to correctly diagnose him. Staring straight at the opposite wall, Wilson relayed how House had finally suggested muscle death from an infarction in the thigh muscle -- "like a heart attack or a stroke," he explained.

"Dying muscle releases myoglobin, which is toxic to the kidneys. He began to experience renal failure. Eventually, he went into cardiac arrest. He was technically dead for more than a minute. That he came through it with no other permanent damage is ... almost miraculous."

House remembered Wilson during the infarction. He'd been there every moment he could get away from his own patients, taking over for Stacy whenever she'd had to leave his bedside. House remembered his pale, sleepless face, his pacing, his shirtsleeves rolled up and his ties always undone. Had Wilson known even then what they were to each other?

"Muscle death also causes excruciating pain," Wilson continued on the stand. He explained the chemically induced coma and the surgery, carefully keeping the personal details of those decisions to himself.

"The amount of muscle removed means that he has very limited use of his leg," Wilson said. "He requires a cane just to walk. There was profound nerve damage. To this day, he continues to experience chronic neuropathic pain, as he probably always will."

Despite the impersonal tone, the deliberate blankness of Wilson's face, House noticed that he referred to it, as always, as _his_ leg -- not just _the_ leg, but _his_. That was one thing Wilson had always understood about the infarction and the threat of amputation. Although Wilson had never tried to talk Stacy out of it, he'd pointedly never tried to talk House into it, either. He had simply known that for House, cutting off a piece of his body was not an option.

"That's a very sad story," McKenna said, clearly not the slightest bit moved by it.

Wilson gave the lawyer a withering look -- the kind he used to give House several times a day, before the looks he started giving House several times a day turned a lot sultrier.

"Dr. Wilson, isn't it true that you've been prescribing higher and more frequent dosages of Vicodin for Dr. House since his leg injury?"

"Hydrocodone users typically build up a tolerance for the medication. If a patient is in chronic pain, a gradual increase in dosage is almost always necessary."

"How do you feel about that?"

Wilson frowned in confusion. "How do I _feel_ about it?"

"That's right. How do you feel about the fact that you have to keep prescribing higher and higher doses of Vicodin for Dr. House?"

"I feel ... upset that my friend is in pain. I feel ... concerned."

"Haven't you said on several occasions that you believe Dr. House is addicted to Vicodin?"

"Dr. House needs daily pain medication to do his job, which is saving people's lives," Wilson said, glaring. "There is a difference between addiction and physical dependence --"

"Please answer the question. Have you or have you not said, on several occasions, that you believe Dr. House is addicted to Vicodin?"

Wilson pressed his lips together. "I have said that, yes."

McKenna handed Wilson a sheet of paper encased in clear plastic. "Dr. Wilson, this is the pharmacy log from Princeton-Plainsboro on December 24. And this," he said, pointing, "is a prescription for oxycodone for your patient, Larry Zebalusky."

House watched as Wilson followed McKenna's finger on the pharmacy sheet.

"Dr. Wilson, whose signature is on the line there?"

"It's Dr. House's signature."

"And wasn't this prescription picked up by Dr. House _after_ Mr. Zebalusky's death?"

"Yes."

McKenna nodded with an expression of disgust on his face, transparently for the judge's benefit. House watched impassively. They'd already been over this; Howard would point out the irrelevance of the prescription log when he got the chance to question Wilson.

McKenna returned to his table and then approached Wilson again, sliding several more plastic-sealed papers into Wilson's hand.

"Your Honor," McKenna said, "these are prescriptions for Vicodin, made out to Greg House, from Dr. Wilson's prescription pad. In the course of this investigation, Detective Tritter uncovered several such prescriptions with signatures that do not match that of Dr. Wilson." McKenna leaned on the witness stand with one elbow and addressed Wilson. "Did you write these prescriptions?"

Wilson carefully did not look down at the evidence in front of him. "I've written a lot of scripts for House over the years. I'm his doctor. I can't be expected to remember them all."

McKenna did not look pleased. "Look at the signatures, Dr. Wilson. They're clearly different from your signature. Now, I'll ask again: did you write these prescriptions?"

House watched as Wilson pretended to examine the scripts. He kept watching quietly as Wilson inhaled deeply and released the breath in a long sigh. "I --" He stopped and swallowed. "I couldn't say."

"Your Honor," McKenna demanded.

The judge frowned at Wilson, but Wilson was staring past McKenna at House, watching House steadily with a pained expression. "Dr. Wilson," the judge said sternly, "please answer the question."

Wilson kept his eyes locked on House and didn't say a word.

"Dr. Wilson!" McKenna nearly shouted. "_Did you write these prescriptions?_"

House held his gaze. He couldn't have looked away if he'd wanted to. Fear and dread coiled in the pit of his stomach, but he ignored them as he stared back at Wilson -- his best friend, the man who had been willing to give up his entire life for House's freedom -- and tried his damnedest to silently tell Wilson everything. _Tell them. It's okay._

_I'm sorry._

Wilson's head dropped and he pushed the scripts away, back towards the lawyer.

"No," he said quietly, defeated.

McKenna nodded as if that had concluded everything. "No further questions, Your Honor."

"He's in chronic pain!"

"Dr. Wilson, that will be all."

Wilson stood up, his eyes blazing. "There isn't a minute of his life that he's not in pain! He needs those drugs to do his job!"

The judge banged her gavel. "Dr. Wilson --"

"This is ridiculous."

"-- if you cannot be quiet, you'll be held in contempt of court --"

"You're persecuting a guy who saves people nobody else can save," Wilson shouted after McKenna, who was quickly retreating to his table. "He was willing to get help!"

"This is your last warning, Dr. Wilson," the judge said, her voice ringing though the room. Wilson sat down heavily with a look of shock on his face.

"Your witness," McKenna said.

Howard stood. "Dr. Wilson, was Dr. House aware that Mr. Zebalusky had passed away when he retrieved Mr. Zebalusky's pills from the pharmacy?"

Wilson cleared his throat, and it was only because House knew him so well -- intimately well -- that he could tell Wilson was shaking. "I couldn't say. He -- ah, he probably didn't know."

"Is it uncommon for colleagues to pick up valid prescriptions for other doctors when those doctors are otherwise occupied?"

"No, it's not uncommon. If Dr. House were busy with a patient and needed a prescription to be picked up, I would gladly do the same for him."

"What happened to the pills when Dr. House brought them to you?"

"I informed him that the patient had just passed away. He handed me the bottle." Wilson sighed. "I threw the pills out."

Howard nodded and then shot Wilson a piercing stare. "Dr. Wilson, isn't it true that you are currently under investigation by the New Jersey State Board of Medical Examiners for possible sexual misconduct with a patient?"

House's jaw dropped. "Objection!" he yelled.

Howard, McKenna, Wilson, and the judge all looked at him like he'd lost his mind. Maybe he had. There was no way he could have just heard Howard ask Wilson if he was _under investigation_.

"Dr. House," the judge said, "you can't object to your own lawyer's questions."

"No," McKenna agreed, "but I can. Your Honor, what is the point of this badgering?"

Howard straightened. "Merely trying to point out that Dr. Wilson is not exactly the star witness with the pure motives Mr. McKenna would like him to be," he said, still staring hard at Wilson.

"I'll allow it," the judge said, distinctly fascinated by what was going on.

House, furious, stood up. "Can I have a word with my lawyer?" he asked, already grabbing his cane and stalking towards Howard, ignoring Cuddy's harsh whisper of his name behind his back.

"Dr. House, please sit down," the judge said firmly. He ignored her, but he couldn't ignore the combined glares of Howard and Wilson, the former annoyed, the latter pleading. Stopped in his tracks, he dropped his chin and returned to the defense table.

"Yes," Wilson said dejectedly, answering Howard's question. House ground his teeth. So it was true. Someone had found out about Grace and turned Wilson in to the medical board. House squeezed his cane until his hand began to hurt, but it didn't come close to masking the pain he was already feeling.

"Have you engaged in sexual misconduct with patients?" Howard asked.

Wilson swallowed. "No."

"You never had inappropriate sexual contact with Grace Polmurin, a terminal patient you treated last year?"

"No."

"Then why would someone make such allegations against you?"

"I guess that's for the Board to figure out."

"Do you have any idea who could have made these allegations?"

Wilson mutely shook his head.

Howard studied him for a moment, and then asked, "But you've thought about it, right? It must have been someone close to you. Someone who knew you very well. Someone who might have wanted to get back at you for an infidelity; someone _you_ might want to get back at for turning you in. Someone you might want to hurt."

House felt his stomach flip. His jaw fell. It was all he could do not to shout another objection. He searched Wilson's face for any indication that Wilson might be buying Howard's bullshit -- but Wilson's face was a mask.

"Someone like Dr. House?" Howard quietly asked.

Wilson looked down at the floor. "I don't know who made the allegations," he said.

Howard smirked at Wilson, conveying with perfect clarity that he didn't believe a word of it. "That's all I have for this witness, your Honor."


	18. Ever Love Anybody Else?

The judge's gavel had barely hit the stand before House was out of his seat again, limping towards Howard with murder in his eyes. Wilson scrambled to get there first. Forgery might have been worth ten years, but homicide in front of half a dozen witnesses was more than enough for a life sentence.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" House hissed at the lawyer, who put a hand up to keep him a safe distance away.

"Not here," Howard said through gritted teeth. He walked past House and returned to the table.

"Let it go, House," Wilson said, wearily stepping down from the witness stand and putting a hand on House's shoulder. He didn't care if it counted as a public display of affection. Right then, it seemed more like a public service.

House didn't let it go; he only redirected his quiet, furious tirade to Wilson. "Who was it?" he demanded, eyes flashing dangerously. "Was it her? Was it one of your other cancer people?"

"Can we talk about this somewhere else?" Wilson begged, glancing at Cuddy, who was approaching them rapidly, disbelief in her eyes.

"What was _that_?" she hissed at them as soon as she reached hissing distance.

"Not here," Wilson said desperately.

"Fine," Cuddy agreed. "I want both your asses in my office _now_."

"But your office is all the way over at the hospital," House sniped. "I'll need a teleportation device --"

"I will destroy you," Cuddy promised.

"We'll be there in twenty," Wilson said. She gave him a suspicious look before stalking off.

House still looked like he might blow up at any second, so Wilson grabbed him by the arm that wasn't holding the cane and dragged him towards the door. "Come on," he said, and for once in his life, House shut up and listened.

They had to walk past Tritter, of course, who was standing sentry at the door with his standard look of pitying smugness. Wilson clenched his jaw, furious at the sight of him, but Tritter must have figured he was ahead. He let them both pass without a confrontation.

Wilson was trying to get them outside to the safety of the car, but he'd overestimated House's capacity for patience. Only a few steps away from the courtroom, House grabbed him by the forearm and dragged him into the restroom. He locked the heavy door behind them, and then unceremoniously shoved Wilson up against it.

"Who turned you over to the medical board?" House insisted again, his eyes practically glittering with anger. "It wasn't one of the poker guys, they couldn't care less. Was it the kid, the faith healer? Did Tritter find out?"

Wilson exhaled hard and pushed House away. "Jesus, you're paranoid. It was me, okay? I did it. I sent in an anonymous complaint."

The transformation of House's face from fury to shock to confusion was remarkable to watch. "You did this?" House sounded lost. "They'll investigate you --"

"And find what? Grace died two weeks ago. And she wouldn't have turned me in anyway. I'll be investigated. They'll question me. It'll be embarrassing. It _should_ be embarrassing," he said miserably. Being publicly humiliated was the least of what he deserved. Then again, House would probably keep punishing him for it for the rest of his life.

"Lying is a lot further down on most people's lists of sins than sleeping with a patient," he continued. "And in the meantime, the judge thinks I'm screwing around on you, breaking all the ethics codes, and probably lying about the forged prescriptions to get revenge for you turning me in. Makes me look real good as a witness," he spat.

 

House stepped back. "Was this Howard's idea?"

"It was my idea. I didn't even tell him until after I'd done it."

They were quiet for a minute. Wilson leaned against the locked door while House braced both arms on one of the sinks.

Finally, Wilson pushed himself away from the door and walked over to stand behind House, watching both of their reflections in the mirror. "Cuddy's waiting," he said.

House looked up and held Wilson's gaze in the mirror for a long moment before nodding.

Cuddy was considerably calmer when they showed up at her office, but her expression was no less severe. She sat down at her desk and pinned Wilson under her stare for an entire minute before asking why he happened to be under investigation by the medical board. She got half the story -- that he'd called in a complaint against himself to discredit his own testimony -- but not the part about how the complaint was true. After being assured that there was nothing the board could nail him on, she relented and sent them both home.

On the way, Wilson stopped at a drugstore and made House wait in the car while he went in to buy lube and condoms. Neither of them said anything, but House wasn't called a genius for no reason, and the distinct flush on his cheeks when Wilson got back in the car told Wilson everything he needed to know.

* * *

Ten minutes later, he had House naked and panting on top of him, pinning his arms to the bed and sucking on the side of his neck.

"I really appreciate everything you're doing to try to get me off," House said sweetly, drawing slightly breathless laughter from Wilson. "I mean the trial, of course."

"Of course," Wilson replied, his voice muffled by House's shoulder.

"Although I appreciate everything you're doing right now, too. Oh, _fuck_," House gasped, inhibitions and anger seemingly forgotten. "Have you done this before?"

"Yeah," Wilson managed to say, grinding his cock against House's hip.

"In the last fifteen years?"

He grinned. House was warm and heavy on top of him, pressing him into the sheets the way no woman could do, the way he hadn't felt since his twenties. How he'd managed to resist this thing between them for so long was a mystery. "It doesn't really change. And ... yes. Sort of."

House bit Wilson's lower lip and then soothed the superficial injury with his tongue. "Sort of?"

Oh, right -- that was how. He'd almost forgotten how annoying House could be when his tireless pursuit of truth just happened to revolve around Wilson's personal life. It figured that House would want to know every damn detail. He jumped as House started playing with his cock, a little rough, then breathed a sigh that was as much resignation as pleasure. "Julie ..."

"Julie liked anal sex?" House pulled his face back, looking aroused and impressed. "I never knew she had it in her."

Wilson winced, but not at the pun, although that was bad enough. "Not ... exactly."

Wilson could almost hear the click at the moment when House got it. He turned very quiet, blue eyes blazing. "Cool." His voice was strained and his expression said that he'd underestimated both Julie _and_ Wilson. He looked down the length of Wilson's torso and wet his lips. "What, like ... with a toy? A strap-on?"

Naturally, House would be turned on when Wilson was as close as he'd come in a long time to dying of embarrassment. "Do we have to talk about this? Or can we just do it already?"

"Do," House quickly said, his eagerness turning him into a teenage boy. "Let's do. Less talking, more doing. I am so there."

Wilson knew all too well what he was risking. Asking House to fuck him was opening the door for a lifetime of jokes at his expense. That door had actually been wide open from the moment Wilson handed House a candy ring and asked House to join him in the holy bonds of -- well, of trying to keep House _out_ of bonds. Yet House hadn't tried to humiliate him then. At the time, House had been downright penitent. And House had gone down on him, right there in the very same bed -- had sucked him until Wilson was an incoherent mess and then held onto him through the aftershocks.

But more than that, House had begged Wilson not to perjure himself, even if it meant House would go to jail. House had turned red with rage after finding out that Wilson was under investigation by the medical board.

_Yeah_, Wilson thought, digging the lubricant and a condom from the bag by the bed, House might make fun of him. He'd survive.

He lay on his back and screwed himself on House's long fingers, swearing when necessary, biting his lip with every breath. Fucking another doctor had obviously been the way to go; House had found his prostate with hardly any trouble at all, and now he was staring down at Wilson with a look of undisguised fascination and lust. Or at least that's what he thought House's expression was saying. He could barely focus on House's face, so distracted was he by the pleasure searing through his body every time House's fingers slid deep inside.

When he couldn't take another minute, he reached down between his legs and grabbed House's hand. "You gonna do this or what?" he asked. If it came out sounding less authoritarian than desperate, House at least had the courtesy not to mock him.

Instead, House averted his eyes, staring at some indeterminate spot on Wilson's chest. He shifted the fingers still inside, dragging a moan out of Wilson. "Are you ... ready?"

"God," Wilson said, half laughing. "If I were any readier, it would be over."

A corner of House's mouth quirked up but the hint of a smile quickly vanished. Wilson tried to ignore the fact that House's fingers were in his ass just long enough to shake himself out of the haze of pleasure, and noticed for the first time that House was _scared_.

Wilson frowned. "Are _you_ ready?"

House shook his head almost imperceptibly. He slid two fingers most of the way out then all the way back in again, evidently unconscious that he was doing it. "No," he said, swallowing. "I've never been ready for this."

That was a lie, at least in part; when Wilson looked down the length of their bodies, he could see immediately that House was ready as hell, and had been ready for a long time, if the shiny head of his cock and the matching wetness on the side of Wilson's abdomen was anything to go by. What's more, House was still stroking him inside, slower now, brushing his prostate on every inward thrust.

"We don't have to," Wilson offered in a shaky voice, which was also a lie. If House didn't fuck him soon, he was going to go crazy. Truthfully, he might have already gone there. Having this talk while House finger-fucked him was a pretty good indicator of mental instability. "We could ... do something else ... uh, I could suck you, if you'd like. Would you --?"

"It's going to kill me," House said quietly.

"I'm good," Wilson joked, "but not _that_ good." When House didn't respond, Wilson closed his eyes then reached down again and carefully withdrew House's hand, flinching a little at the loss. He rolled to his side and tried to catch House's elusive gaze. "Talk to me."

"This," House said without hesitation, gesturing at the space between them. "Having this and then losing it. I don't know how to deal with that."

Wilson put his hand on House's shoulder. What he really wanted was to drag House down on top of him again, but he restrained himself. "What makes you think you're going to lose it?"

House finally looked him in the eye, but only for a second before flopping onto his back. "Because I stole your pad," he said. "Because I forged your name. Because I'm going to jail."

It might have been the first time he'd heard House admit, in complete seriousness, to the full reality of what was happening. House had joked about it, made off-the-cuff remarks about it, but never with this kind of gravity. Of course House would choose to have his breakdown when they were seconds away from finally fucking. He'd always excelled at making things difficult.

"You can't think like that," Wilson said, sitting up and carefully, casually, moving to straddle House's reclining form.

"You --" House started then stopped, distracted. His hands came up to hold Wilson's hips.

"It's just not healthy," Wilson added, retrieving the abandoned condom and bottle from the table next to the bed.

"Right," House murmured, clearly with no idea what they were talking about.

Wilson bit a corner of the condom wrapper and tore it open. "Besides, you have the best defense attorney in the county, and he hasn't even started yet."

He backed up enough to smooth the condom down over House's cock without disturbing his leg. "Uh huh," House groaned, propping himself up on his elbows so he could watch as Wilson tipped the bottle of lube into his own hand and smoothed it over the condom.

Wilson closed the bottle with a snap, tossed it aside, and held House's cock steady while he cautiously, slowly lowered himself onto it.

"Oh, god," House was saying softly, reverently. "Oh, my god."

He slid in slowly, an inch at a time, as Wilson gave himself time to adjust, breathing steadily. House's hands would probably leave bruises on his hips the next day. And why not -- his hands had already left invisible marks all over Wilson.

The position was unfamiliar, and not quite what he had wanted -- what he had wanted was House on top of him, driving hard and steady into him, pushing him face down into the mattress with every thrust -- but this should work. If House needed to sit back and watch, Wilson was okay with that.

He sank down, legs trembling on either side of House's torso, and looked down. House's chest was rising and falling rapidly and the look of bliss on his face made Wilson's breath catch in his lungs.

He leaned forward over House's body, bracing his hands on either side of House's head, and kissed him deeply. "What happens at the end of the trial doesn't matter," he said, pulling away. His hands slid lingeringly from House's shoulders down the length of his arms. "Not now. Right now, we have this. We have time." He moved then, lifting his hips before sliding down onto House's cock again. House made a sound that could only be described as a cry of pleasure and Wilson grabbed him by the hair, forcing him to look Wilson in the eye and listen.

"So give me this," Wilson said, rocking forward and then back again, one hand planted firmly in the middle of House's chest to keep himself upright. House's eyes fluttered shut but then opened again. "Whatever else happens, you can give me this."

"Anything," House promised, his ragged voice as sincere as Wilson had ever heard it.


	19. That's Why it Pays to Have More Than One Friend, House

The next day, Howard got his chance to shine.

He started by putting Cuddy back on the stand as a character witness. House appreciated the irony of the fact that the woman whose life he habitually made difficult or impossible was now responsible for lying under oath about what a swell guy he was.

Howard also called each of House's employees, which allowed him to point out just how far Tritter had been willing to take his vendetta. Foreman testified that Tritter had offered to spring his brother from a prison in Trenton in exchange for ratting House out. Cameron testified that Tritter had obtained a copy of her undergraduate transcripts. House was impressed. Even he hadn't been able to dig that deep into his employees' pasts. The judge appeared less than pleased.

To cast doubt on the pill stealing and forgery allegations, Howard asked each fellow how many pills House took in a day. All three -- including Chase, who still hadn't stopped glowering at House with those kicked-puppy eyes -- testified that he was within the recommended dosage. This was not, strictly speaking, the truth. Since the disaster of Christmas Eve, he'd been counting -- mainly to avoid pissing Wilson off by demanding a refill too soon, but also to satisfy his own reluctant curiosity. No wonder the bottles seemed to turn up empty so frequently.

House had admitted once, to Wilson alone, that he was an addict. But he had also pointed out that he didn't have a problem. He knew, at least, that he didn't have the problem most people accused him of having. Vicodin made him capable of doing his job. It made him functional.

House's problem, then, was twofold: first, he wasn't stupid enough to be unaware of the long-term impact the drugs were having on his liver, and second, he was now sleeping with the most annoying man on earth, who always got a pinched-mouth, put-upon look on his face whenever he caught House popping another pill. House might not have cared, but Wilson's despondent looks now seemed to open up entire oceans of remorse he had never known he possessed.

At Howard's request -- really, more like his demand -- House had humbled himself enough to play the poor, disabled doc in the courtroom. Howard didn't want House to take the stand, but he insisted that the right demeanor at the defense table could go a long way towards earning sympathy points. After everything Wilson had done to protect him, shutting up and behaving himself was the very least House could do. Wilson, unfortunately, wasn't there to be impressed by House's display of contrition. Enough of his patients had stuck by him through the debacle that he was almost back to his former level of business. The dying people needed him.

House spent most of the day alternately thinking about sex and jail. He started to think about sex _in_ jail, but being in court was creepy enough, so he tuned out the testimony and entertained himself with thoughts of his new favorite distraction.

He had no idea how he would ever be able to work again -- no, how he'd ever be able to _function_ again -- now that he'd fucked James Wilson. It was like solving the greatest mystery in the universe. What else was there left for him to do in life? And the best part was that he could do it over and over again, just about any time he wanted to, so the thrill of getting it right, of revealing the truth, would never get tired and forgotten.

Or at least that would be true until he was sent to prison.

He was screwed. Literally, and in every other way.

Foreman was alone in the conference room later that day, paging through a magazine during his break from their latest patient, when House poked his head in the door.

"You need to apologize to Chase," Foreman said without looking up.

House, standing in the doorway, cocked his head and squinted. "When will people stop telling me what I _need_ to do?"

Foreman closed the magazine with a sigh and turned to face House. "Maybe when you stop _needing_ other people to tell you how to behave like an actual human being," he said, standing. "You punched him in the face! He could press assault charges against you. You're lucky he hasn't already. That would look really nice in court with your forged prescriptions and secret stash of stolen pills."

House let go of the door frame and walked into the room. "Chase wouldn't press charges," he said with contrived confidence.

"I think you seriously overestimate the tenacity of Chase's loyalty to you," Foreman said. "There's only so much abuse a person can take." He peered at House through narrowed eyes. "You _are_ sorry, aren't you? So what's the big deal about telling him?"

House felt a twinge of not-unfamiliar pain in his shoulder. He turned and left without answering the question. The blinds were closed but the light was on in Wilson's office. He didn't bother knocking.

Wilson was behind his desk, and when he glanced up at House, the look on his face was enough to make House grateful that he had the cane to lean on. It was the first time in weeks that he'd been able to walk into Wilson's office and have Wilson be glad to see him. Being with Wilson had always been a mood-booster, but now his reactions to the man were starting to get embarrassing. He tried to glare, but his attempts at resentment were no match for Wilson's smile.

"How did it go today?" Wilson asked.

"They were good," House admitted. What he really wanted to talk about didn't involve the trial but did involve a lot of inappropriate groping and dirty words. "They lied about how many pills I've been taking." He faked a tearful sniffle. "My children. I've taught them so well."

Wilson ignored this last remark and frowned thoughtfully. "And you realized they were lying. Which means you realize how many pills you actually take in a day." He stood slowly, in a way that House was sure he'd used on skittish animals and frightened children. House didn't let it annoy him. After all, he'd seen Wilson naked.

Wilson came around the desk and approached House with a watchful look on his face. "And ...?"

Even the renewed memory of Wilson on top of him last night -- legs splayed, sweating, begging for it -- couldn't stop House from feeling completely at the other man's mercy. He used to be able to withstand Wilson's nagging about his Vicodin use, to put Wilson off with a sharp joke or the occasional angry outburst. But not anymore. There had been a power shift. Wilson had always been a manipulative little shit, but how he'd managed to wrest away control of the debate when he was the one getting fucked in the ass was a mystery House hadn't yet solved.

House dropped his gaze and glared at the floor. "We're not talking about this," he said, trying for authoritative but landing somewhere between uncertain and pleading. So he took too many pills. So they were beating the crap out of his liver. So it was breaking Wilson's heart. He was still riding every day on the crest of a wave of opiates that constantly threatened to break into pain. He could barely walk. And he'd never be able to bend Wilson over his desk and put it to him the way he wanted. Wilson's Vicodin angst couldn't hold a candle to House's own problems. _Please_, he thought, _please don't push it._

As if reading his mind, Wilson took another step forward and wrapped his fingers around House's wrist. "Okay," he quietly conceded. "Can we ... talk about it later?"

Wilson was giving him time. Space. Wilson had never given him either one, not when it came to the Vicodin, which meant either Wilson had come to a new and radically different understanding of the psychology of House's drug dependence, or sex turned Wilson into a sloppy, sappy fool. House preferred to think the former, but just in case, he looked suspiciously at Wilson through lowered eyelashes and warned, "You're not making me into one of your wives."

"Wouldn't dream of it," Wilson promised. He gently squeezed House's wrist and changed the subject. "Missed you at lunch." When House remained quiet, he added, "Actually ... I've pretty much missed you all day."

House let Wilson know that he'd revised his earlier opinion. Sex _did_ turn him into a sap.

"Compared to you, Attila the Hun was a sentimentalist," Wilson protested. "And I hardly think missing your company makes me a sap. I haven't left little love notes on your desk, I haven't sent you flowers or chocolates ..." Wilson squinted. "Do you _want_ me to send you flowers and chocolates?"

"I am a sucker for chocolates," House said, realizing that he kind of liked Wilson's brand of sappiness.

"That's not all you're a sucker for," Wilson said, leaning in to brush his lips against House's. He exhaled a smug breath of laughter as House grabbed him and pulled him closer, deepening the kiss.

Wilson really was a manipulative son of a bitch.

House wrapped his arms around Wilson's middle, pawing at his back for a few minutes before dropping his hands to grab Wilson's ass. Wilson pulled his mouth away from House's just long enough to reach for the door and lock it. House was surprised. Wilson had questionable sexual mores, that was for sure, but House had been fairly certain up until then that office nookie was off-limits.

Wilson gave him an exasperated look. "You're never going to leave my ass alone now, are you?"

"Nope," House replied cheerfully, giving him a squeeze.

"I don't know whether to be flattered or frightened."

"Why hold yourself back? Go for both of them. Diversify."

Wilson glanced back at the locked door, looking dubious. "Cuddy did say no to office sex. Actually, she sort of threatened to hurt me."

"Stop, you're turning me on."

"We can't fuck in here," Wilson said warningly, lowering his voice at the word _fuck_.

House glanced around the room. "What, like it's _bugged_?"

Wilson's eyes grew wide and House had to briefly entertain the possibility that the place really was bugged. He wouldn't have put it past Tritter. Well, fuck that. Let the cop listen. What did they care?

"There's no bed, to start with," Wilson explained. "And we're not exactly young enough to do it on the floor." He glanced at the chair behind House. "Although ..." he said, his expression thoughtful.

That was how House ended up in the chair in the corner of Wilson's office, with Wilson standing between his knees and Wilson's dick in his mouth. It was genius. He could suck Wilson standing up without putting any strain on his leg. Why hadn't House thought of this sooner? He might be better with obscure diagnoses, but Wilson unequivocally had the market covered on sex positions.

Wilson's cock was beautiful, hard and hot and smooth, tasting of clean skin and bitter pre-ejaculate. House cupped his scrotum and ran a hand up his inner thigh. Wilson's shirt was still on, but his tie was on the floor and his collar was unbuttoned. He smelled of musk and fabric softener and maybe, if House wasn't imagining it, the soap in House's shower. Wilson's hips shifted slightly, trying to resist the natural urge to thrust. House wanted to tell him that he could, if he wanted to; he could fuck House's mouth. They could handle it. They could do anything.

He knew he shouldn't love this so much. It shouldn't feel that good. The thick hardness in his mouth, the gentle massage of Wilson's fingers on his shoulders, the tension in Wilson's thighs and abdomen, the soft pleading sounds from above and the wet, dirty, sucking sounds below .... The rush of blood to his face was familiar, as was the heat of residual shame and rebellion, remembered from his teenage years, when sucking cock on a Marine base might have got him killed. He wondered what it might cost him now. His job? He doubted it. He could probably blow Wilson on Cuddy's desk and she'd still never drop him. If he started sucking down Wilson ten times a day instead of sucking down Vicodin, Cuddy would probably throw him a party.

The walls between their two offices were thin, as they both knew from various overheard conversations over the years, which made sucking Wilson's dick that much more exciting. Wilson bit back his moans and spoke encouragement in whispers. House wasn't sure whether he was more turned on by the trying not to get caught or by the prospect of making Wilson scream.

"Do you think they're doing it?"

House almost choked as Foreman's voice drifted through the flimsy plaster. Mouth and hands still full, he immediately looked up at Wilson, who was staring down at him with glazed eyes and a horrified expression.

There was a scoffing sound and then Cameron's faint response, somewhere between amused and scandalized: "No!"

The words were muffled and frequently unintelligible. "Brenda ... overheard Cuddy ... about him and House," Foreman said.

House slowly pulled his mouth away, letting Wilson's cock slip from between his lips with a wet sound. They hadn't talked about this. They hadn't talked about any of it -- about keeping this private, about the ever-churning Princeton-Plainsboro gossip mill, or about what any of this meant. They were fucking. They were _married_. The latter was a con job, the former was more or less an accident. Where would they be after the trial, even if House miraculously got away with it?

Chase protested, citing something about rumors.

"Would it bother you if they were?" Foreman asked. Even through the wall, House could tell from his voice that Foreman was smirking, probably crossing his arms over his chest, his eyes daring Chase to take the bait.

"No!" Chase exclaimed. "Because they're _not_."

House made a note of Chase's peculiar vehemence, promising further investigation and possible harassment, but those things would have to wait for a time when Wilson's thumb wasn't stroking House's lower lip and Wilson's cock, still hard and shiny with saliva, wasn't hanging out a few scarce inches away.

So maybe Wilson was okay with people knowing about them. At the very least, knowing that there were already rumors and that House's team was talking about them didn't seem to be doing anything to curb Wilson's libido. Finding out this way was a hell of a lot more fun than _talking_ about it.

House weighed his options with comic over-exaggeration while Wilson made quiet, frustrated sounds above his head. Finally, having tortured them both enough for the time being, he licked his way back down the length of Wilson's cock and resumed sucking.

"All I'm saying," Foreman continued faintly, "is ... there has to be some reason why Wilson's put up with him for this long."

House sucked hard, drawing a low groan from Wilson. Why _had_ Wilson been putting up with him for this long? They'd only been sleeping together for a few days; Wilson had endured House for a decade. Foreman might be onto something there.

"It doesn't mean they're sleeping together," Cameron was saying, although she sounded less than confident.

House tilted his head enough to look up at Wilson, who was watching him with a flushed face and a soft expression.

"Well, at least Wilson's a step up from hookers," Chase said.

Wilson laughed -- loudly -- then gasped again, grabbed House's shoulders, and came. Only by sheer force of will was House able to keep his mouth around Wilson's dick and not get it in the eye. Wilson's cock pulsed one last time and then he staggered backwards, laughing again, landing hard against his desk and sliding to the floor, pants around his knees. House wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and glowered.

"What?" he demanded, rubbing his thigh.

Wilson grinned. "Nothing," he said, his expression radiating angelic virtue, but his flushed cheeks and the mischief in his eyes gave him away.

"Screw you," House muttered darkly, looking down at his feet.

When he glanced up again a few seconds later, Wilson was watching him quietly, his pants still undone, his eyes warm and his mouth quirked in a half-smile. "Do you the same favor?" he offered, his voice soft and husky. House felt a rush of heat to his groin.

Someone knocked on the door.

Wilson leaped to his feet like a scared rabbit and started pulling, tucking, and buckling as quickly as he could. House sighed. So much for that idea.

"Just a moment!" Wilson called, and if his voice sounded a little hoarse or rough around the edges, House would probably be the only one to notice.

"Is House in there?" That was Cameron, sounding more nervous than usual. "His patient's BP is dropping. And Cuddy wants to see both of you in her office. She said it was important."

Wilson swiftly ran a hand through his hair and opened the door. House, still in the chair, nudged Wilson's forgotten tie with the toe of his sneaker.

"Thank you," Wilson said. "We'll be right there."

House glanced up and over his shoulder at Cameron, who was bemusedly looking back and forth between them. "Is ... everything okay?" she asked.

"Oh, sure," House said. "Everything's great. How are you?"

Cameron stared at him like he'd just sprouted wings. "Um, I'm fine," she answered. "I'll ... see you later." She backed away slowly before turning and heading down the hall.

Wilson cast House a disapproving look and his hands automatically went to his hips. "You scared that poor girl," Wilson admonished.

"Are you kidding? That's probably the most thrilling thing to happen to her all day."

"You think she'll be upset? I mean, when she finds out about this?"

House considered it. "She might be. You might have to fight her for me. Think you're up to it?"

Wilson stuck his head out the door and watched Cameron walk down the hallway. "I could drop her. Think you're up to people finding out about this?"

He was surprised by the sudden change in tone. Wilson was normally pretty good at concealing his vulnerabilities when they arose, but House could tell he was nervous -- like he was expecting House to tell him that they should never say anything about it to anyone, arrive at and leave work separately at all times, and pretend that nothing had changed.

Then again, they were both perfectly aware that they were living on borrowed time, so maybe that wasn't such a stupid idea after all.

"If I go to jail," House said quietly, grabbing his cane and resting his chin on it, "do you really want to be known as the queer oncologist who was doing the cranky drug addict until you retire or move to another city? Gonna be pretty hard to pick up chicks."

Wilson's face was bleak. "You don't know that you're going to jail," he protested wanly.

"I don't know that I'm not going to jail, either." House hesitated and then added, "Even if I don't, what makes you think this is going to last?"

Wilson closed the office door again and stepped in front of House. A few less layers of clothes and they'd be right back where they were twenty minutes ago. House forced himself to look up at Wilson and not get distracted by the front of his pants. "What makes you think it's not going to last?"

"You've been divorced three times. I'm a drug addict. I annoy you --"

"Case in point," Wilson muttered, tiredly rubbing the back of his neck.

"-- and you annoy me," House continued. It hurt to think about these things now, but it would probably hurt a lot more to put the conversation off until later. "You wake up too early. You're obsessive about your appearance. I'm older than you. I do stupid things and you get pissed at me. You're a sexual magpie who will flirt with anything that walks by in high heels and a vulnerable expression ..."

"I'm --" Wilson quickly lowered his angry voice to a hiss. "I'm in love with you, you jackass!"

House leaned back in the chair and somberly looked at Wilson. "You were in love with your wives. You're in love with everyone." He felt a twinge of guilt at the wounded look in Wilson's eyes.

"I never cheated on Julie," Wilson said calmly. "She cheated on me. And I walked out because I didn't love her enough to fight for her. What do you think I've been doing for you all this time?"

"What do you want, a trophy?"

"I want you to give us a chance." Wilson spoke quietly, but he was visibly frustrated. "I want you to trust someone for once in your life. You see, unlike some people I could mention, I'm actually capable of learning from my mistakes. But you -- oh, no," he continued, laughing bitterly. "You're something else. You push people away because you anticipate getting hurt. But you know what? It's not going to work with me because I'm not going away. I think I've proven that enough in the last dozen years.

"I'm not embarrassed about this," he added in a gentler tone. "I don't care who knows that I'm doing a cranky drug addict. I mean, I am _married_ to said cranky drug addict. People are going to assume."

He bent down to pick his tie off the floor and instead of putting it back on he draped it over the back of House's chair. "Come on. Cuddy awaits."

There were at least a hundred names on the list of people House might have expected to see waiting for them in Cuddy's office -- Howard, Tritter, House's parents, his third grade teacher -- before the person who was waiting for them.

The sight of Stacy Warner perched on the edge of Cuddy's desk stopped him in his tracks.


	20. People Over Pills

"You know," Stacy said, "I wish I could say I'm surprised that you decided to actually get a fake civil union, but I'm really not."

Wilson liked Stacy. He always had. He'd liked her as a person, he'd liked that she made House happy -- or as close as House could ever get to happy -- and he'd liked having someone else around who 'got' House, for shared commiserating. He had been not-so-secretly rooting for them the last time Stacy came back into House's life, despite his own hypocritical reservations about marital infidelity. If Stacy could have made House smile more, or abuse Vicodin less, Wilson would have done almost anything to ensure their success.

Which was why he was taken aback by his immediate reaction to seeing Stacy now.

He glanced at House, who was staring with eerie blankness and silence. Cuddy, behind her desk, was eying them both with a peculiar sympathy.

Stacy was still wearing her wedding ring, but as Wilson had learned last time, that didn't mean much. House had sent her away, but that didn't mean much either -- Stacy never would have survived five minutes with House, let alone five years, if she didn't have a stubborn streak at least as wide as House's own. Was she back for round three? She and Wilson had talked infrequently since the last time, but he had never heard anything bad about Mark and he had no reason to suspect that there was anything wrong with her marriage.

Still, the sick feeling wouldn't go away. Anyone who knew House -- and Wilson liked to count himself as someone who knew House better than most -- knew that Stacy had been the capital-L love of his life. Whatever House's accusations, Wilson wasn't a sap and he wasn't a complete fool. He knew damn well that this ridiculous fling couldn't begin to compete with what House had been through with Stacy. And here she was again, and there was House, his face still unreadable.

It would be better to lose House to Stacy than to prison, he thought. Stacy had had him first, after all. And she had been good for him, for a while. Wilson told himself he would be okay with that, if that was what it came to -- if it would make House happy. It wasn't like he and House couldn't be friends anymore. They were all adults.

He wished she'd never come back.

House spoke. "It was his idea," he said, pointing accusingly at Wilson.

Stacy raised her perfectly arched eyebrows and glanced back and forth between them. "Okay, now I am surprised. James, I never knew you had it in you."

Wilson turned to cut House off at the starting line. House was already opening his mouth, evil in his eyes, probably just waiting to spring some witty remark about things Wilson had had in him. Wilson had meant it when he told House that he didn't care if other people found out, but he was pretty sure this wasn't the way to do it.

"I'm full of surprises," Wilson said, and when that only seemed to egg House on, he simply stepped in front of House and swiftly changed the subject. "When did you get here?"

Stacy smiled. Her open affection for Wilson made him feel guilty for wanting her to go away. "This afternoon," she answered. "Lisa called to tell me about your latest stunt and I decided I was overdue for a visit. You boys should have said something sooner. We could have thrown a bachelor party."

Wilson spent a frantic second staring at Cuddy and trying to figure out just how much about their 'stunt' she'd told Stacy. Cuddy's face was a mask.

Then Stacy looked past him and glared at House with such clear reproach that Wilson's assumptions about a future reconciliation were turned on their heads. Part of him wanted to cheer. Another part felt guilty for celebrating.

"You should be ashamed of yourself," Stacy told House.

"Yes, _Mom_," House answered. "What about you? Your civil union idea, your fault."

"It was a _joke_," Stacy said. "You wanted legal counsel, you should have talked to a _legal counselor_ before going through with it."

Cuddy's door opened behind them and Wilson turned around. "House," a frazzled Chase said, "we need you upstairs. Sorry."

House turned back around, opened his eyes wide and said, "Gotta go." Before following Chase out the door, he gave Wilson a deliberately heated look that nearly made Wilson blush. Maybe he'd been wrong about the House-and-Stacy thing.

"Relax," Stacy said as soon as the door was closed. "Lisa told me everything."

Wilson felt his jaw drop as he turned on Cuddy, who was defensively raising her hands. He quickly realized, though, that there was no way he could be upset every time someone new found out, especially if they were going to take it this well. Stacy seemed okay with it, Cuddy was dealing, and Chase at least thought Wilson was an improvement for House. They were doing well so far.

"How is he?" Stacy asked.

For a fleeting, frightening second, Wilson thought she meant _in bed_. They couldn't keep up the blow jobs at work if this was what they were going to do to his brain.

"He's ... fine," Wilson eventually answered. "He's as okay as you could expect under the circumstances. He's finally come to terms with the fact that this isn't a cause or a movement -- it's just him going to prison. For nothing. I don't think he's thought about what will happen if he loses."

"And the trial?"

Wilson summarized the events as best he could, concluding with House's report from earlier on his team's testimony. Without talking to Howard, it was impossible to be sure, but it almost seemed as if things were starting to look up.

"What happens if he gets away with it?" Cuddy asked. "Does he just go back to how things were before?"

"Well, he'll never speed anywhere in the state of New Jersey again," Stacy said.

"I'm a little more concerned about what happens if he doesn't get away with it," Wilson sighed. "If he does get away with it ..." He shrugged helplessly. Cuddy hadn't seen House on Christmas Eve, overdosing on his floor, and as far as Wilson knew, she still hadn't heard anything about it. House was using Vicodin again, but Wilson didn't think it was just his imagination that House had been slightly more cautious about the pills since that night. He cleared his throat. "He actually seems to realize how many pills he's taking in a day."

Stacy, who had missed the worst of the Vicodin debacle, barely reacted, but Cuddy's eyes grew wide. "And does he give a crap? Did he talk to you about it?"

Wilson hedged. "Not in so many words. We didn't ... _not_ talk about it."

Cuddy squinted at him like he was a dull child. Wilson sighed and explained.

"House -- is smarter than just about everyone else. And worse, he _knows_ he's smarter than everyone else. His ego feeds his addiction. He resents anyone who assumes they know more about his leg or his drug use than he does, to the point of completely shutting down anyone who tries to argue with him. He's stubborn, he's vain, he's proud ... but he knows something is off. I think he's thinking about it. Processing it." He glanced at the floor. "I don't want to -- jinx that."

"That's good," Cuddy said. Her voice was warm, if skeptical. "That's a step in the right direction."

"Yeah, well, don't tell him that," Stacy said, crossing her legs. "He doesn't really respond well to that kind of encouragement."

Cuddy's expression was a blend of laughter and horror. "I don't want to know what kind of encouragement _Wilson_ has been giving him."

"I'm happy for you," Stacy said as blood rushed to Wilson's face, and the amazing thing was, he could tell she really meant it. "For both of you. I just don't envy you in the slightest."

"Thanks," Wilson said, "I think."

"He's not easy to live with -- actually, he's damn near impossible. But you know that."

"My assistant already gave me a business card for a domestic abuse hotline. And House did promise to stop putting hot sauce on my toothbrush." At Stacy's raised eyebrows, he dismissively explained, "It's a guy thing."

* * *

"Look," Foreman said, falling in step next to Wilson as he left Cuddy's office, "I don't know what you're holding over him, but you have to make House apologize to Chase."

Wilson glanced at him out of the corner of his eye. "For the last time, I really don't have any magical powers."

"Magic, voodoo -- I don't know and I don't want to know, but you have to make him apologize."

There was a note of urgency in Foreman's voice that caught Wilson's interest. He stopped walking and moved into a corner where they wouldn't be in the way of people walking through the halls of the hospital. "Why?" he asked in a lowered voice.

Foreman looked left and right before speaking, making sure the coast was clear. Wilson had to lean in to hear him. "Chase was working on his resume today. I think he's planning to resign."

He shouldn't have been surprised. There was no question that Chase had been quieter lately, and although the bruise on his jaw had long since faded, the betrayed look in his eyes was still there. "He's quitting?"

"I think he's tired of House walking all over him," Foreman said, crossing his arms. "Getting punched in the face was just the last nail in the coffin. So, like I said -- whatever you're holding over him? Work it."

Wilson vowed to do a better job in the future of hiding his dirty fantasies during work hours. House hadn't been kidding -- he _had_ taught his team well. Foreman's curious, challenging expression was so eerily House-like that Wilson felt an actual chill run down his spine. With three proto-Houses running around the hospital, Wilson would have to do a much better job of concealing his impure thoughts now.

Foreman leaned back, radiating confidence. "It's true, isn't it?"

He knew instantly what was being asked, but he stared down at the floor and said it anyway. "Is what true?"

"The rumor that you and House are ..."

Wilson hazarded a glance at Foreman's face. Foreman looked back expectantly.

Wilson winced. "Don't finish that sentence."

"Ha!" Foreman said, pumping his fists in the air and grinning. "I knew it!"

Wilson took a step back, eyes wide. He'd thought Cuddy and Stacy's reactions were more or less positive, but this was a little ridiculous. "What are you so happy about?"

Foreman, in an uncharacteristic moment of physical affection, clasped Wilson's shoulder warmly. "Cameron owes me a hundred bucks," he explained, and then walked away.

* * *

Wilson drove back to House's apartment -- he supposed he could start calling it 'home' now and meaning it -- and let himself in with his key. House, who had left work the moment he could sneak out the front door, was sitting on the couch in front of _North by Northwest_ and a wide array of Indian takeout.

"I got the cheese naan," House said, "and that disgusting spinach thing you like."

Wilson smiled to himself as he hung his coat up in the closet. Disgusting or not, he knew House would steal at least half of his saag before the end of the night.

He joined House on the couch and grabbed the unopened bottle of beer on the table. "I think you should apologize to Chase," he said.

House turned and glared. "Jeez, Foreman's got a big mouth."

"I didn't need Foreman to tell me that you need to apologize to Chase. I saw his face, remember?"

A moment later, just as Wilson had suspected he would, House reached into the pocket of his jacket, looking for his Vicodin.

"Although," Wilson said, hoping to distract him before he could open the bottle and obtain his own form of distraction, "Foreman does seem to think that I have some sort of magical House powers. That, or I'm holding something over you. Think there might be something to it?"

He put on his best 'fuck me' expression, one that had always been successful with his wives, usually up to the point where they threw him out. Of course, House was not like most of the people he'd married, or even most of the people he'd slept with. House was, in fact, in a class all to himself. House wavered, let his eyes drift downward to stare at Wilson's mouth, but didn't break. Instead, he turned the tables, leering at Wilson.

"If I apologize to Chase, are you gonna make it worth my while?"

Wilson shook his head wryly and took a drink from the bottle in his hand. "If you apologize to Chase, people might actually stop telling you to apologize to Chase. That alone should make it worth your while."

House snorted in disbelief. With the attitude of a man trying to piss someone off, he tossed a pill into the air and caught it with his mouth.

Wilson pursed his lips and pointedly didn't comment on the Vicodin, although he wanted to -- god, did he want to. That was another surprise side effect of the civil union scam and of sleeping with House: his anxiety over House's drug habit was amplified. At the same time, talking to House about it was more difficult.

"You're harder on Chase than on anyone else," Wilson said. "And he's a better doctor than you give him credit for. He's learned a lot from you over the years, and his fellowship is almost over --" He stopped abruptly and gave House a hard look. "That's it, isn't it?"

"Oh, here we go," House muttered.

"He's going to be leaving soon. You're going to miss him."

House closed his eyes and scrubbed at his face with both hands.

Wilson put his drink down on the coffee table and turned toward House. His fingers itched to reach out and touch House -- his knee, his shoulder, or maybe the back of his neck. House looked like he might want it. "He's been with you the longest, you know him better than Foreman or Cameron -- you're going to miss him when he goes. So you treat him like crap now, hoping that will make it easier to say goodbye to him --"

"Yeah yeah yeah," House said, so fast that it sounded like one word. "You took a psych class in college. You're an expert on human nature. We get it."

"Why won't you just apologize to him?"

"What does it matter?" House said, raising his voice and slamming his own beer bottle down on the table with a sharp bang. Wilson jumped. "When I'm in jail, what is any of this going to matter? Chase won't have to worry about me picking on him. He can run the whole department if he wants it," he muttered, pushing himself to his feet with his cane in one hand and the armrest under the other.

"You don't know that you're going to jail," Wilson said again, getting up and following House into his bedroom. "You said that your team did well today, and the judge might find that there's enough reasonable doubt about the prescriptions ..." He trailed off, distracted by the sight of House lying on the bed, arms and legs spread expectantly.

Wilson took a step forward, squinted, and asked, "What are you doing?"

House stared at him the way House stared at most people -- which is to say that he stared at Wilson like Wilson was an idiot. "Are you going to have sex with me or not?"

Wilson blinked. Not that he wasn't tempted, but this was a little out of left field, even by House's standards. "What?"

House sighed, clearly tired of having to explain himself to dullards. "Alfred Hitchcock, the spinach thing -- come on. I'm obviously trying to seduce you."

Wilson rubbed the back of his neck. Now that House mentioned it, he did feel kind of seduced. Still, he knew a potential victory when he saw one. He defiantly crossed his arms over his chest. "No."

House raised his eyebrows in disbelief.

"Not until you promise me you're going to apologize to Chase," Wilson said. "And Cuddy."

"And _Cuddy_?"

"And Cuddy," Wilson insisted. "You made her cry!"

"Cuddy doesn't cry," House said from the bed, although it was evident that didn't believe his own words. "She's a robot. A man-eating machine."

Wilson gave him one last exasperated look. "Apologize," he said, and then tried to leave.

"You realize that you're punishing yourself, too, by withholding sex."

When he turned back around, House was on his side, propped up by an elbow, trying and failing to look authoritative. Wilson held back a smile. The frustration in House's eyes told him he was going to win this round.

"Maybe. But that only serves to punish you more, by making you feel guilty about depriving me of my conjugal rights."

"I don't feel guilty," House snarled. At Wilson's skeptical smirk, he added, "I don't!"

"Here's an idea," Wilson said. "Why don't you try actually being nice to people for a change? Think of it as an ingenious new way to mess with their heads. They'll never know what hit them."

He went back to the living room to catch the end of the movie and eat his spinach thing in peace. Ten minutes later -- less time than he'd anticipated -- House returned, stood behind the couch, and bent down to bite the nape of Wilson's neck.

"You win," he muttered, licking the space where his teeth had just been. "I'll apologize to Chase and Cuddy."

Wilson swallowed a mouthful of rice and saag and said, "And Marco."

"Oh, come on!" House yelled, standing up and leaving Wilson's neck alone for the time being. "You want me to apologize to the pharmacist?"

"Yes, I want you to apologize to the pharmacist. You were a jerk to him."

He didn't have to turn around to know that House was pacing furiously behind him. "You can't be serious."

"Oh, I'm serious," Wilson said, setting his dinner down and standing up. He walked around the couch and stepped directly into House's space. "I've never been so serious in my life. I want you to apologize to Chase, Cuddy, Marco, and anyone else you owe an apology to. Including me."

House, his pacing path cut off, thumped the cane on the floor in frustration. "You? I apologized for taking your pad, I apologized for not taking your deal -- what do want me to apologize for now? For being at your sexual beck and call all weekend? For blowing you in your office?"

Wilson swallowed and stuck out a hand, placing it on House's chest, right over his heart. "For Christmas Eve."

He watched as all the anger drained from House's face. House's eyes flashed and his hand moved automatically for his pocket.

"No," Wilson said, getting to the pocket first, reaching in and grabbing the bottle of pills before House could get his fingers around it. He threw the bottle across the room where it landed with a clatter, pills rolling around inside the plastic. House frowned and opened his mouth, but again, Wilson got there first. "I want you to apologize to me for what you did on Christmas Eve. And I want you to mean it."

House's mouth was tight. "That's kind of a tall order, don't you think?"

Wilson shook his head, feeling his own mouth tense. "No."

He still saw House's body crumpled on the apartment floor -- in nightmares, or whenever House dropped another pill into his mouth -- but now that wasn't the only House he could see when he closed his eyes. There was also this House, standing half-broken in front of him, and the House he took to bed, with hungry eyes and hands that never stopped moving. There was the House with whom he verbally sparred and the House who would do just about anything, no matter how dangerous or bizarre, to solve a mystery and cure a patient nobody else could cure. There was the House he'd met twelve years ago, fearfully young and cocky. Sometimes, there was the fantasy of a House with whom Wilson could actually have some kind of future -- a House who wasn't courting death every day of his life.

He wanted that. And he didn't think it was all that much to ask.

House held his gaze for a long moment, his eyes looking green-gray in the dim light -- the same color they'd been when Wilson found him on the floor. He looked down and visibly swallowed. "Wilson ..."

"Don't _ever_ do that to me again," he found himself saying, his voice low, almost shaking. "Don't --"

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I --"

He wanted to touch. He wanted to reach out and touch House so badly that his body practically ached with want. He'd spent twelve years being unable, not allowed, forced to keep a safe distance -- but he _could_ touch now, he could touch all he wanted.

So he did.


	21. Being Normal Sucks

In the end, all it had taken to get Wilson back in the sack was House swearing to apologize to "anyone you want me to -- I'll apologize to the entire universe -- just please have sex with me."

Mornings were easier with Wilson in his bed. They were easier in a lot of manifest ways -- the spectacular breakfasts, for instance -- but they were easier in more subtle ways, too. Waking up to cold feet kicking him in the shins, while not necessarily more pleasant than waking up the blaring alarm clock radio, was a nice change of pace.

Knowing that Wilson would be back in his bed that evening made it easier to leave when he had to return to court for the last day of testimony. Howard, who might actually have had some sort of super powers, had somehow managed not only to contact the handful of patients House hadn't completely humiliated, alienated, or tortured in the last few years, but to sweet-talk them into saying a few kind words on his behalf. While this only added up to about half a dozen people, the judge did start looking at House -- sitting passively in his seat, tie knotted, cane in his hands -- with something akin to respect.

By that point, Howard was practically radiating confidence. He promised House that the prosecution was running scared. The sour look on Tritter's face seemed to confirm that fact, and House went back to work with a strange feeling in his stomach that could have been called optimism.

Wilson was at the clinic intake desk, absorbed in a file, vulnerable to an ambush. House skulked through the doors and easily snuck up behind him. He stuck both hands deep into the pockets of Wilson's lab coat, prompting Wilson to jerk so violently that he nearly gave House a concussion. Wilson spun around and gave House a long-suffering look, his face a charming shade of pink.

"You could save yourself the trouble of stealing my wallet by just taking the money directly from my account now," Wilson testily suggested.

House frowned. "Can't a guy hug his husband at work anymore? We're newlyweds," he informed the distressed-looking nurse behind the desk, making sure to be as obnoxious as possible.

Wilson gave him a look that managed to be both affectionate and disapproving.

"Buy me lunch?" House asked with what he hoped was a winning smile.

"I'm out of here in ten minutes," Wilson said. He handed over a file. "Here. Have a patient. Make yourself useful."

Towards the end of lunch -- while successfully stealing the last of Wilson's cherry tomatoes and unsuccessfully trying to convince Wilson to have sex with him in the cafeteria restroom -- House's cell phone rang.

"Have you apologized to Chase yet?" Foreman asked as soon as House answered. House glared at Wilson across the table, but Wilson only took a bite of his salad and stared back innocently.

"Is that what you called about?"

"No. I called because you have a visitor in your office."

"Take a message. Some secretary _you_ are."

He could practically hear Foreman's glare. "I think you'll want to see this one."

House's eyes narrowed. Foreman had sounded faintly amused, which meant that whoever was upstairs in his office probably wouldn't try to arrest or shoot him. Then again, it was Foreman, so maybe whoever was upstairs _would_ try to arrest or shoot him. He hung up the phone and narrowly missed swatting Wilson's fingers as he stole House's last French fry.

"What did you get me?" he asked Wilson. "Hooker or another masseuse?" After a pause, he clarified: "And by masseuse, I also mean hooker."

Wilson looked exasperated. "I didn't get you anything. Especially not a hooker."

"Stripper?" Wilson gave him another look and then stood up, grabbing both of their empty plates. "Singing telegram?" He got up and followed Wilson. "A puppy?"

"I didn't get you anything," Wilson repeated as they left the cafeteria.

"Come on," House protested. They stepped into the elevator alone. "You never got me anything for Christmas. It has to be a stripper."

"I got you a deal for Christmas," Wilson said peevishly, pushing the button for their floor, "which you proceeded to screw up. Besides, it's not like you got _me_ anything, either."

"You're a Jew," House said. "I got you guilt."

* * *

House had a bad memory for patients, but a pretty good one for people who threatened to kill him and then gave him gorgeous sports cars.

Bill Arnello, lawyer and mobster, stood up when House and Wilson walked into the office, his face as friendly as House had ever seen it.

"Dr. House," he said, extending his right hand and smiling. "How's that car treating you?"

Slightly stunned, House reached out and accepted the proffered handshake. "Great," he said, momentarily free of sarcasm. Arnello's smile was sort of alarming. House scanned the room for any accompanying goons who might be lurking in the corners, waiting to break his arms.

"I got a call from your attorney. I'm sorry I couldn't make it here in time to testify."

Wilson squinted. "You got a call from his attorney?"

"Yeah, he wanted me as a character witness. I guess he was kind of scraping the bottom of the barrel, huh?"

"Wilson, you remember Mob Guy," House said, gesturing at each of them in turn. "Mob Guy, this is Wilson."

"Bill Arnello," he said, offering Wilson his hand. "Dr. House treated my brother a couple of years ago."

"Of course," Wilson said, shaking Arnello's hand just a little too eagerly, a bit starry-eyed. Wilson had always loved that car. Wilson probably would be willing to have sex with the car if he could figure out the mechanics. House walked around to his side of the desk and sat down, making a mental note to figure out if Wilson was only sleeping with him so he could have better access to the Corvette.

Arnello sat back down again and Wilson took the seat next to him. House leaned back in his chair. "So," he said. "You missed the trial. What are you doing _here_?"

Arnello shifted almost imperceptibly in his chair, but the effect was remarkable. In a split second, he suddenly seemed to be larger than life -- and dangerous, too. "I respect you, Dr. House," Arnello said, his voice low. "You helped my brother and me in a tough time. I consider you a friend of the family. I like to help my friends whenever I can."

House raised his eyebrows and stole a glance at Wilson, whose dazed expression was turning slightly nervous.

"I heard about this cop," Arnello continued, leaning forward and lowering his voice even more. "Your lawyer told me he's been pushing you around, being disrespectful. Now, normally, I don't want to get into it with the cops; I'm not that kind of guy -- but like I said, you did good for me and my brother and I appreciate that. So," he concluded, reclining a little and glancing casually around the room, "you want me to, uh, take care of this guy?"

House shifted his feet onto his desk, leaned back in his chair, and beamed like the Cheshire cat on speed.

"No!" Wilson protested in horror. Arnello looked at him coolly.

"What?" House asked, feigning incredulity. It sounded like a great idea to him. Whack Tritter -- why hadn't he thought of it sooner?

"Are you out of your mind?" Wilson demanded of House. He was wearing his offended face -- one of House's personal favorite Wilson faces. "I mean -- Mr. Arnello," he continued in a more apologetic tone. "We -- um -- we _appreciate_ your concern, and it's very kind of you to offer, but I don't think your ... methods ... are what we need at this point."

"But _Mom_," House whined, dragging the word out until it had at least three syllables.

"Don't start with me," Wilson snarled, trying to be intimidating, but he was sitting next to the Mafia itself, so he ended up just looking sort of ridiculous. Hot, but ridiculous. That was Wilson all over, actually.

"He never lets me have any fun," House explained to Arnello.

Wilson's beeper went off. He checked it, sighed, and stood. "I have to go," he said. "Mr. Arnello, it was very nice to meet you. Thank you again for the car and ... everything." Wilson shifted nervously and then looked at House. "You -- if I don't see you later, I'll just meet you at home. And I _will_ find out if you put a hit on anyone," he warned.

"Spoilsport," House muttered darkly as Wilson left.

Arnello watched Wilson's retreat and House worried momentarily what punishment Arnello might want to exact for Wilson's disrespect. "He's all right. He just needs to loosen up a little."

Arnello squinted at House. "Is he, like, your boyfriend or something?"

House stared in the direction Wilson had gone. "Or something."

"Is that how you knew all that stuff about my brother being gay?" Arnello was quiet. House wondered how long it had been since he last saw his brother, if he ever heard anything about him. Then he caught himself caring about a patient and quickly stopped.

"No, I knew all that stuff because I'm a doctor," he said. "And because I have no life."

Arnello smirked.

House kept watching the door through which Wilson had disappeared. "Or 'had,' actually," he added quietly. "I might have a life now."

* * *

Only after Arnello left, agreeably pledging not to kill anyone, did House find the resignation letter on his desk.

"Chase!" he shouted, belatedly realizing that his tone was more likely to scare the kid away. Chase came anyway, although he hovered near the door, hands deep in his pockets, like he wanted to be anywhere else in the world but pinned under House's gaze.

"Your resignation," House said, lifting the paper and letting it wave in the air before dropping it unceremoniously into the trash bin. "It's unacceptable."

Chase looked mildly shocked. "You can't just throw it away and pretend that I never gave it to you. I'm your employee, not your prisoner."

"I don't like hiring," House said, as if that explanation was more than sufficient.

"Well, I guess it sucks to be you, then, doesn't it?"

House peered at him. "Is this one of those Cameron-style coercive resignations, where I have to take you out on a date to get you to come back to work? Because I'm telling you right now, I'm not taking you out on a date. I'm a married man, you know."

Chase looked revolted. "I don't want a date. I want another job. You have my notice," he said, turning to leave.

"Chase," House said firmly, stopping him just short of the glass door. Chase turned around again, arms crossed. "I don't want you to quit."

Chase cocked his head and narrowed his eyes. "Why do you want me to stay?"

"You have great hair."

Chase gave him a lethal glare and started to leave.

"Chase --"

"Can we get this over with?" Chase snapped, his arms re-crossed. "I --"

"I'm sorry."

Chase froze in the doorway, his face awash in confusion. For a moment, he looked like a lost little boy. House leaned back in his chair, his shoulder aching. He would have described his feelings for Chase just then as paternal if his own experiences with paternal figures hadn't left a sour taste in his mouth. Warm, in any case. Wilson, damn him, might have been onto something.

Chase scowled. "Wilson put you up to this, didn't he?"

House winced. "Wilson, Foreman, Cuddy, the kid at the snack shop ... the parking lot attendant ... yeah, take your pick. Does it matter?"

House grabbed the cane leaning against his desk and got to his feet. Chase flinched.

"You're not going to hit me again, are you?"

"I'm _sorry_," he repeated. "I shouldn't have hit you. I was out of my mind, I was in pain, I was detoxing --" He stopped and shook his head, realizing how lame that sounded. "No. There's no excuse. I'm just sorry."

Dazed, Chase fumbled for a moment before protesting, "It's not just that. You treat me like shit all the time --"

"I've been punishing you for Vogler for two years now."

Chase stared at him in shock for a long moment before blinking, turning away, and then bringing both hands up to rub his face.

"Oh, god," House said quietly, dread pooling in his gut. "You're not going to cry, are you?"

Chase pulled his hands away and crossed his arms over his chest. His face was menacing but his eyes were suspiciously shiny. He steadfastly refused to look House in the eye. "I -- I respect you _so much_," he said. "I like you so much, and yet you're such a --" He gestured in a way that made it not at all apparent what House was, but the resentment on Chase's face got the message across loud and clear.

House cringed. He reached out and placed a hand on Chase's shoulder.

"I treat you like shit because I'm an asshole," he said, while Chase continued to look anywhere but at him. "Not because you deserve it. You didn't rat me out this time -- you could have, and you would have been more than justified, but you didn't. You're a good doctor," House continued, and he shook Chase's shoulder just a little for emphasis. "You got that kid's diagnosis right and you stopped the surgery. You were right," he said. "You ... did the right thing. And I'm proud of you."

Chase finally looked at him, and for a scary moment, House wasn't sure if Chase was going to ignore him and walk out the door anyway or punch him in the face. His body seemed to tremble with indecision. Then he lurched forward, wrapped his arms around House, and hugged him.

Awkward. So damn awkward. House hesitantly returned the embrace, patting Chase on the back. Oddly, he felt better after doing it. Some of the tension receded, leaving him with relief -- relief that after screwing so many things up, he'd been able to set something right.

Chase pulled back and straightened his shirt, staring at some indeterminate spot above House's shoulder.

"Are we good?" House asked, unsure of the protocol.

Chase bit his lower lip, nodded, and left the office.

House thought for a moment, and then reached into his pocket, wrapping his fingers around the prescription bottle. His fingers seemed to twitch with the familiar, phantom motion: withdrawing the bottle from his pocket, flick of the thumb to pop open the cap, barely perceptible weight of the tablet in the curve of his palm. The steps were so intimately habitual he could have performed them in his sleep.

Instead, he left the bottle in his pocket and made a beeline for Wilson's office by way of their shared balcony. The cold January air felt good. _Feeling_ felt good. His leg -- well, it hurt, but it hadn't been that long since the last pill, and it was a dull pain. His shoulder ached less, too. He barged through Wilson's door without knocking and found Wilson behind his desk, absorbed in his computer screen.

"Did you know Chase was going to resign?"

Wilson briefly glanced up from the screen. "I ... heard rumors to that effect. But you needed to apologize to him anyway."

"That's two apologies down," House reminded him, just in case Wilson got it in his head to try withholding sex again. Wilson could be tricky like that -- letting House think he'd won, then turning around and changing the rules of the game.

"And two to go," Wilson added, turning his attention back to whatever was on the computer screen. House craned his neck. E-mail. Unless it was porn, there was no way Wilson's e-mail could be more interesting than House.

"I'm not your bitch, you know," House said, partly to direct Wilson's attention back to where it belonged -- on him -- and partly just to make it perfectly clear that he wasn't.

"Oh, no," Wilson said solemnly, his eyes never moving from the computer screen. "Of course not. You're nobody's bitch."

"I'm going to fuck you through the mattress," House promised.

That got his attention, at least momentarily. Wilson glanced up at House and raised his eyebrows, distinctly skeptical of this claim. "Uh huh," he said dryly, "I'm sure."

"Or maybe I should have you fuck me," House suggested.

At that, Wilson's eyes grew wide and his breathing turned visibly erratic. Score one for House, then. If messing with Wilson was an Olympic sport -- and House thought it really should be an Olympic sport -- he would have just won gold. He would have danced out the door if his leg could allow it.

"I will be checking with them, you know," Wilson said shakily as House opened the door to leave. "So don't think you can just lie to me about apologizing to them." Almost as an afterthought, he added, "Bitch."

House glared and kept glaring as Wilson stared hard at his computer screen and mostly failed to keep a straight face.

* * *

He spent the whole damn day apologizing.

Marco was suspicious. Cuddy laughed at him. "Well, this is a perk I did not expect," she said, leaning back in her chair and plainly gloating.

"Yeah, well, just see if I ever apologize to you again," House sneered.

"Oh, I'm sure you will," Cuddy said. "I'm sure you'll find ample opportunity. And motivation, apparently. Remind me to give Wilson a raise."

House didn't remind her of the fact that he and Wilson now had a joint bank account. What she didn't remember could only help him.

"How's the trial going?" Cuddy asked.

The pill bottle was back in his hand before he could realize what he was doing. He squeezed the plastic once -- but it had been several hours, hadn't it? On the other hand, who really cared? He opened the bottle and tossed one into his mouth before he could think about it too much.

Cuddy's brow creased at the sight. _Oh, God_, House thought. _The Wilson Guilt Trip. It's contagious._

"The trial is fine," he said. He glared, just daring her to comment on the Vicodin.

He was sort of surprised when Cuddy didn't just rip him a new one. Instead, she smiled sadly and looked down at her desk. "Good," she said quietly. She pressed her lips together. "Keep me posted."

As it turned out, she didn't need to comment. He walked out of the office feeling like shit anyway.

* * *

"_Fuck_," House groaned as Wilson pushed forward, another inch or two of his cock sliding inside. He clawed at the sheets under him, needing something to hold onto, but his fingers only skidded uselessly against the Egyptian cotton, leaving faint impressions behind.

Wilson's hand clutched his bicep. Another hand was holding onto his hip, holding him still as Wilson pushed his way in with cautious, shallow thrusts. The unfamiliar burn was just this side of pleasure, just far enough away from pain for House to greet it as a welcome distraction from the ache in his leg and the matching one in his mind.

"I thought I was," Wilson panted against his ear. His voice sounded almost soothing, despite the smart-ass remark. Gentle, like he was coaxing House to relax and enjoy this. Not that House needed any more encouragement. All it had taken was Wilson standing awkwardly in the bedroom doorway with his shirtsleeves rolled up, one hand on his hip and the other rubbing the back of his neck, sheepishly asking if House had been remotely serious about his earlier offer, and House had been willing to do anything Wilson asked.

Wilson had taken him to bed and arranged him there with painstaking precision. He had evidently given this some consideration. House supposed there were benefits to screwing doctors, especially doctors who knew his medical history as well as he himself did.

"Is this okay?" Wilson had asked him with every shift of his leg until House had snapped that they were fucking, not posing for a portrait, so Wilson could just shut up and do it already.

Now Wilson was pressing him into the mattress and dragging slow, sucking kisses across House's neck and shoulders. "Kill you," House muttered against the pillow, each word a struggle from his overtaxed lungs. "Gonna kill you later. But now -- yes, like that, _right there_ ..."

He should have anticipated this: the spine-melting hotness of having Wilson inside him, hard and tight, his entire body trembling with the strain of not simply pulling out and slamming back in again. The pleasure of friction, his own dick trapped between the sheets and his abdomen -- really, he should have known better. He should have known sooner. More than a decade of friendship and it had taken the near annihilation of everything they had -- the threat of losing it all -- to push them to this point.

As Wilson leaned back, withdrawing just far enough to make House moan when he slid back in again, House was painfully aware that now might be the only chance they had to do this. Howard had been confident, yes, but he wasn't infallible. If the judge convicted him, he might not even get to _touch_ Wilson again for days, weeks, even months.

Wilson suddenly sucked House's earlobe into his mouth. With one arm braced on the bed he slid the other down and under, taking House's leaking cock in his hand.

"You're thinking again," Wilson murmured, stroking him, making him squirm. "I can tell. Knock it off."

Wilson fucked him slowly at first, although House wasn't sure why. "I can take it," House said, but Wilson still held back, like he was afraid of what might happen if he let himself go, or like he knew as well as House that the clock was still ticking away and wanted to make this -- what might be their only chance -- last. Not until House reached back with one arm, threaded his fingers through Wilson's hair, dragged his face down, and hissed 'more' did Wilson finally give it up, groaning and wrapping both arms around House and driving into him with abandon.

Wilson was louder now than he'd been when their roles in this had been reversed. Every exhalation sounded like a sigh; every inhalation sounded like drowning. He also seemed to be everywhere, surrounding House, all roaming hands and clean sweat and ceaseless energy. House gave himself over to it, letting Wilson take charge, letting Wilson take what he wanted and give back as good as he got. It was really no wonder Wilson got so much play.

It was messy and weird and wonderful, just like it should have been. Just like their relationship had always been.

After what somehow felt like both an eternity and no time at all, the movement of Wilson's hips turned erratic and his pace sped up, drawing a deep groan of pleasure from House. Wilson made a soft, almost sob-like noise as he came. "House," he said. Then he collapsed.

House scowled a little and shifted as much as he could under Wilson's boneless weight, rubbing his erection against the sheet. "Hello," he said over his shoulder in an irritated voice. "Still not done here."

"Shut up," Wilson said mildly. He rubbed House's arm and pressed his open mouth to the back of House's neck. "I'm basking."

"Well, bask faster. I haven't got all night."

"Give me a minute."

Wilson didn't need a minute. A few seconds later he groaned and pulled back. He withdrew from House, who tried vainly not to wince. That was going to hurt like a bitch in the morning. Depending on what happened in court, it might hurt metaphorically for the rest of his life.

Wilson's hands were quickly on House's hips. "Turn over," he said, tugging and shifting until House was on his back. Smoothly, like there was nothing to it, Wilson slid down the length of House's torso and sucked his cock down in a single motion.

House, to his annoyance, came in less than a minute.

Wilson flopped onto his back, one arm over his head, looking pleasantly sated. House took in the sight of him: hair mussed, face flushed, neck and chest covered in a fine sheen of sweat. He looked edible. Why hadn't they done this ten years ago?

House reached over and poked him hard on the shoulder to keep him from falling asleep.

"Ow," Wilson said, rubbing at the invisible mark.

"How long?"

Wilson glanced at him, momentarily taken aback. He was quiet. Then he looked down the length of his torso and calmly answered, "Seven inches."

"That's the best deflection you've got?"

Wilson's exhausted grin was gorgeous. "I just got laid," he said. "Give me a break, okay?"

"How long?" he insisted.

"How long have I wanted to jump you? Oh, I don't know." He brushed a mislaid strand of hair out of his face. "A while."

"And when were you going to share this juicy piece of gossip with the class?"

"Never," Wilson said tiredly. "I didn't know how you'd react, and I didn't want you to feel ... pressured. I didn't want to lose you as a friend, if that's what it came to. But now ... now we don't have anything to lose."

House sat up and accidentally jostled his leg, which immediately registered its displeasure. He massaged the damaged muscle with one hand, wondering where he'd left his Vicodin.

"We have _everything_ to lose," he said angrily. "_I_ have everything to lose -- because this is the only thing I have."

Wilson frowned when he noticed House rubbing his thigh. "You won't lose it."

"How can you say that? Have you forgotten that you're fundamentally incapable of having a functioning relationship?"

Wilson's face turned sour, and then he rolled out of bed and started digging around for something on the floor. "Jeez, you're fun. I've had a relationship with _you_ for twelve years, remember?" He reappeared a moment later and dropped the prescription bottle onto the bed.

"You call that functioning?" House snatched the bottle and took two pills. "I'll rephrase. You are fundamentally incapable of having a functioning _sexual_ relationship."

Wilson smirked at him, eyes smoldering, before switching off the lamp near the bed. "I think I function just fine sexually," he said.

House was momentarily distracted by the truth of that statement, even if it hadn't been the point he was trying to make. Wilson had asked him the night before if seeing Stacy again had revived any old feelings. It hadn't -- the idea of a life with her seemed like something out of a parallel universe now. Yet seeing her again had made him remember the only truth he knew about human relationships: that people hurt you, fuck you over, and then leave. It was a bitter realization, almost as bitter as recalling just how many people Wilson had fucked over and left in the last twelve years.

_Except for you_, a small part of him remembered.

There was nothing -- not a goddamn thing -- Wilson wouldn't do for him. Who the hell was he to deserve that? He must have been some kind of saint in a past life.

He averted his eyes in the darkness. "If you actually think you want to be saddled to a crippled freak for the rest of your life, you're delusional."

For a moment, Wilson was silent, but his indignant outrage was practically audible. "We're both freaks! We're all freaks! Do you honestly think that anyone we know doesn't have some freakish quality or other? House --" he laughed, a little crazily. "You never get tired of telling me what a fuckup I am. I've been married four times now. I _blow-dry my hair_. I'm a freak! Or look at Cuddy -- she signs up for internet dating sites more often than most people change their underwear, even though she's a beautiful woman who could get a date without batting an eyelash."

He easily ran through the rest of the list. "Cameron's a complete freak. She married a dying guy. Plus she's in love with you, which -- as I think we've just established -- is pretty freaky. Chase has done a lot more dating on the S&amp;M scene than you know. Foreman's an ex-con who irons his underwear. Howard has a collection of Star Wars paraphernalia."

House gaped. "How the hell do you know --"

"Funny thing about being nice to people," Wilson explained. "They tend to let you know things about them. I believe that in some cultures this is known as 'friendship.' Look," he said patiently. The bed shifted slightly and a moment later, House felt Wilson's hand squeeze his shoulder. "I know you. I've always known you. You might be a freak, but no more than you were when I met you. I liked that person; I like _this_ person. And after the last few weeks, there's nothing you could possibly do in the future that would surprise me."

House thought about it. It was a pretty confident claim from a guy who a few weeks earlier could hardly believe that House had stolen his prescription pad. Then again, Wilson was smart -- not smart enough to stay out of this mess, of course, but smart enough to know how to handle it now that he was in.

"Go to sleep, okay?" Wilson yawned, brushing House's arm with the knuckles of his hand. "Because I'm not going to fuck you again tonight. No matter how nicely you ask."

He blinked in sleepy satiety. The Vicodin and the orgasm were catching up with him. His point -- did he still have a point? -- could wait.


	22. The Advantage of Being a Freak is it Makes You Stronger

The next day, Wilson was up first as usual. He left House asleep and went to take a shower.

From House's and Howard's remarks, the morning -- the last before the verdict -- seemed auspicious. The judge would make her decision by the next day, and House would be off the hook before lunch. If not, Wilson anxiously reminded himself, they could always appeal.

Of course, he had no illusions about life after the trial, even if House won. Getting away with it wouldn't make House forget his insecurities or learn to trust Wilson. It wouldn't change the fact that House had stolen Wilson's prescription pad or that he was still dependent on a drug that would eventually kill him.

House was still in bed when he returned, sitting up and blinking lethargically.

"Hi," Wilson said, and a moment later House nodded his greeting. "You'd better move if you're going to make the closing arguments."

House made an apathetic sound before shuffling out of the room.

Wilson made coffee and got dressed, enjoying the almost schmaltzy domesticity. He'd missed this. He listened to the distant sound of the shower running as his mind drifted.

They hadn't talked about the oxy overdose or the Vicodin. Maybe they never would. While House might be cognizant of the problem now, and more cautious than before about the pills he was taking, Wilson knew that it would only be a matter of time before House moved on and forgot everything. How long would it take for House to start skirting the law to support his addiction again -- recklessly inviting his own destruction with every move? There was no way to tell.

But Wilson had known that from the moment House called him from jail -- almost from the beginning of their friendship -- and like it or not, he would just have to deal with it. House simply was who he was. There was no going back now, at least not without a divorce lawyer. _For better, for worse, in sickness and in health ..._ Wilson would have laughed, but this wasn't just another marriage: this was House. The 'worse' might be pretty damn bad, but the 'better' should be able to compensate.

Wilson wasn't going to screw up again. Not this time.

He wanted to be able to convince House of that, to make him understand that there was a future in this -- in them -- but he wasn't sure if that was even possible. He'd already said everything he could. At some point, House would have to meet him halfway.

After his shower and the first cup of coffee, House was almost human. He even offered to buy breakfast -- at McDonald's, no doubt -- but the clock was running and Wilson was going to be late to work, so he had to decline.

After a moment's hesitation, Wilson leaned in and kissed House. He tasted of dark roast and faintly of toothpaste. Part of Wilson remembered this gesture from the hundreds of times he'd kissed his wives before leaving for work, and he felt a little stupid doing it. As House had emphatically reminded him on more than one occasion, he was not another Mrs. Wilson. Yet a much larger part knew that his current situation couldn't have been more different. That same part couldn't help hoping that even if his words had fallen flat the night before, his mouth might be able to make up the difference.

Hours later, there was a knock on his office door and Stacy poked her head in. "Lisa stood me up," she said. "Can I borrow you for lunch?"

Wilson was a lot happier to see Stacy since he'd realized that the primary threat to his fantasies of a life with House wasn't Stacy but House himself. "You buying?"

"Wow," Stacy marveled, stepping through the door, "you two really are a perfect match. Sure, I'm buying. You look like you could use a decent meal -- and some company."

He winced. "That bad, huh?"

She answered with a sympathetic wince of her own. "No, I'm just good at recognizing the look of a fellow Greg House sufferer. Years of seeing it in the mirror every day will do that to you."

He couldn't dream of the kind of gossip that might arise from his having lunch with House's ex in the cafeteria, so they ended up going to a place within walking distance of the hospital. They talked idly about patients and clients and mutual friends, never straying too close to House, the trial, the Vicodin, or any other sore subject.

Wilson drank too much coffee and lost himself in that morning's disjointed thoughts. How many years would House have left -- how many years would they have with each other -- before the drugs finally killed him? Wilson didn't have as much as a guarantee that House wouldn't continue trying to drive him away. He thought he could handle it, could handle _him_, but what if he turned out to be wrong?

"Penny for your thoughts?"

Wilson smiled wanly. "My thoughts will set you back at least a nickel."

"Hey, I bought lunch. I think you can share whatever's going on in your head."

He pressed his lips together and tried to think of some way to explain. It was impossible, and it wouldn't have been fair to her anyway to expect her counsel. "I'm just wondering whether this is all just -- borrowed time," he said, "even if he doesn't end up in jail. I'm wondering whether I'm deluding myself into thinking that this will last."

Stacy reached across the table and covered his fingers with her own, stopping his nervous tapping. Her wedding ring glinted. "James. The last time I was here, what did you tell me about getting involved with him again?"

Wilson squinted and tried to remember. Did she want specifics? "That ... he'd been pining for you for five years and you couldn't just toy with him?"

Apparently that had been the right answer, because Stacy smiled at him. "He asked me to move in a week after our first date. Greg doesn't understand the concept of 'halfway.' When he goes into a relationship, it's with everything he has."

She squeezed his fingers and then withdrew her hand. "He's a pain in the ass. He's rude, narcissistic, and obsessive -- but he's also amazing. If you can deal with the bad stuff, then he's yours."

"I thought you were supposed to be over him."

"Does anyone ever really get over him?"

Wilson smiled. His cell phone rang and after a glance at the caller ID, he gave Stacy an apologetic glance and answered it. "Hey."

"Get your ass back here," House demanded. "Howard called. Something about meeting with the DA."

Expecting the worst and having no idea what that might entail, Wilson asked, "What happened? Where are you?"

"I don't know, and my office. Where are _you_?"

Wilson glanced across the table. "I'm having lunch with Stacy," he answered. "Do you really need me to come along?"

There was silence on the other end of the line. Wilson was about to check to see if they'd been disconnected when House answered in a low, chagrined tone.

"I don't know what this is about." He paused. "I want you to come with me."

It shouldn't have felt so good to hear House admit that he wanted Wilson around, that he needed Wilson to be there, maybe even that he was afraid to go alone. He looked to Stacy, who waved him away with one hand.

"Meet me out front in ten minutes," he answered.

* * *

House was in front of the hospital just as asked, looking impatient and a little nervous, when Wilson pulled up with his car. He didn't say anything as he got in, and Wilson had to ask him where he was supposed to drive.

The DA's office was easy to find. Howard was out front when they arrived, wearing a peevish look that was surprisingly similar to House's.

"You're late," he said as he led them inside and down a hallway.

"Sorry," House said, sounding not the slightest bit sorry. "Honeymoon phase. You know how it is." They rounded a corner and saw McKenna and Tritter. House pointed to Wilson with an exaggerated wink and a nod and then practically shouted, "He's insatiable."

Wilson would have cringed if he didn't get such a perverse pleasure out of watching Tritter's agonized expression.

"Gentlemen," McKenna greeted them, although he sounded as if he doubted that the term really applied. He opened the door to a small conference room and gestured for them to enter.

The room's main feature was a long cherry table with chairs on each side. McKenna and Tritter walked around the table. Howard sat on the opposite side and House took the chair next to him. Wilson, too nervous to sit, stood aside and leaned against the wall with his arms crossed.

Howard steepled his fingers. Wilson watched House shoot a lethal glare at Tritter from across the table.

Eventually McKenna cleared his throat and spoke. "We're prepared to offer a deal."

Wilson looked up in shock. Howard, who couldn't have been cockier if he'd sprouted wings and started crowing, leaned back in his seat. "Well, we might as well hear it," he said.

McKenna glanced briefly at Tritter before looking back across the table. "It's the same deal as before," he explained. "Eight weeks in a rehabilitation facility in exchange for a plea of no contest. Dr. House gets to keep his license to practice medicine and he doesn't have to serve time."

Wilson shut his eyes and sighed. They had to know by now that House wasn't interested in rehab except as a last resort. Now that they stood a good chance of winning -- an excellent chance of winning, if this desperate effort was anything to go by -- there was no way he'd even consider it. Why was McKenna wasting his time?

Scoffing would have been undignified for a man of Howard's caliber, but he made the message clear. "You're offering the same deal now that you offered before the trial? You must be feeling pretty nervous, counselor."

McKenna narrowed his eyes. Wilson could tell that he knew the score as well as they did. This _was_ a desperate move. "The deal's on the table," he said. "You can either take it or leave it."

Howard smiled pityingly. "Well, I'll have to give my client time to consider your offer."

McKenna looked tired. "Will twenty-four hours be sufficient?"

"Oh, I think that will be more than enough," Howard smugly answered.

"Okay," House said quietly.

The room was silent. Wilson was distantly aware that Howard, McKenna, and Tritter were all staring in shock. He was too busy gaping at House, who was looking at the table, his forehead furrowed in thought, to pay them much notice.

Nobody seemed inclined to say anything until Wilson cautiously ventured, "House?"

He didn't even look up. "I said, okay."

"We should take some time to think about this," Howard patiently explained. "There are a lot of factors to consider --"

"Don't need to," House said firmly, still looking at the surface of the table.

Wilson's jaw dropped. "You don't have to do this," he said. Whatever he thought about House's pills and their effect on his health, this had to be House's decision, and he deserved to know all his options.

Finally, with what looked like considerable effort, House turned and glanced briefly at Wilson before his eyes flickered back down. "I want to do it."

Wilson shook his head in disbelief. "You -- it's the same deal! You could have taken it before the trial!"

"I reject the deal, you get pissed at me. I accept the deal, you get pissed at me. Is it just me, or does this seem like a lose-lose situation here?"

"I just want to know why," Wilson said. "Why now?"

The irritation drained from House's face and he turned away, suddenly quiet again. Wilson watched him swallow and lick his lips before answering.

"Maybe ... I thought you might have some valid concerns," he said. "Maybe I don't want my liver crashing in five years. Maybe I'd like to stick around for a while, see what happens. Maybe ..." He paused and looked up again, meeting Wilson's gaze with lucent eyes. The rest of the room seemed to fade away completely. "Maybe I want to give this a chance."

Wilson stared, and kept staring, and still had no idea what to say -- or whether he was even capable of speaking. He swallowed thickly. "You could win," he said in a voice that shook only slightly.

House nodded grimly but didn't look away. "I could lose. I could lose more than just this trial."

Wilson sucked in a sharp breath and then moved toward House. As if reading his mind, House stood and met him, face to face, only inches apart.

"Are you sure this is what you want to do?" Wilson asked quietly, gripping House's shoulder to steady himself. "Howard's right, we should take some time --"

"Are you trying to talk me out of this?"

Wilson choked on a laugh. "I have no idea what I'm doing," he admitted.

House answered by wrapping his hand around the back of Wilson's neck, his thumb stroking Wilson's hair.

"We'll find a place with a pain specialist," Wilson said, "someone who knows how to deal with your leg and your medical history. Somewhere close. It'll be okay. We'll get through this."

Howard coughed politely and Wilson was jolted back to reality. He pulled away and looked at House, whose face was clear but whose eyes were just the slightest bit wet.

Across the table, McKenna sighed. "Look, do you want to take this deal or not?"

A corner of House's mouth quirked up. He stared at Wilson, his blue gaze never wavering, and solemnly answered, "I do."

At the table, Howard shrugged, smiled, and reached an open hand across the table. "Counselor," he said, "we accept."

* * *

"... so I'm going to rehab," House explained to the assembled throng in his office: Foreman, Cameron, Chase, and Cuddy. Wilson leaned against the wall and surveyed their reactions.

"Oh, _now_ you're taking the deal," Foreman said dryly. "That's good. You wouldn't want to rush into a decision like that. Probably better to drag everyone you know through a long, painful, totally pointless trial first."

Cameron, seated, gaped up at House. "You could have taken the deal weeks ago!"

House shot Wilson a glare, but Wilson just shrugged.

Cuddy stared at Wilson like he'd just performed an elaborate magic trick. He wanted to protest that he'd had nothing to do with House's decision, but it wasn't exactly the truth. Just because he hadn't orchestrated it didn't mean he wasn't partly responsible. Still, House knew he didn't have to go to rehab to keep Wilson -- it wasn't that kind of deal. House had made this sacrifice for his own reasons.

In a way, it was kind of romantic.

"I'll need two months," House told Cuddy.

"It's yours."

"We were hoping to use the rest of the afternoon to find a treatment facility," Wilson said. House gave him a look that said there was no way he was hoping to spend his afternoon checking out rehab programs, but maybe a round of relationship-affirming sex would make the process less tedious.

Wilson was willing to take the rest of the month to visit each and every program on the Eastern Seaboard with House in tow if it meant that they could find one where House would be -- if not happy, then at least unlikely to lead a coup against the management. House was going to be on some sort of prescription painkiller for the rest of his life, but they could find a way to manage the nerve damage to his leg without destroying the rest of his body. Past experience had proven to Wilson that if this decision was going to stick, House had to be in control of every step.

"Fine," Cuddy said, still awed.

"Chase, you're in charge until I'm back. Try not to screw everything up."

Chase gave him a mock salute.

"Do you still want me to take care of the rat?" Cameron asked.

House patted her on the shoulder with what might have been affection and she glanced up, a resigned smile on her face. "Sure."

Wilson felt a twinge of guilt, but Cameron seemed to be taking the whole thing better than he'd anticipated. She had to be hurting -- she wouldn't be Cameron if she didn't -- but another part of her must have been happy for House. For both of them, hopefully.

"Okay," House said, grabbing his coat and heading for the door. Wilson shrugged and followed. They didn't get far before Foreman blocked the doorway, arms crossed.

"Wilson already tried to keep me from going to rehab," House said. "If it didn't work for him, I don't think it's gonna work for you."

Foreman smirked. "I'm not going to hug you. And I don't want to take care of your rat."

"Good," House said, "because I'm fresh out of hugs. And rats, actually."

Instead, Foreman stuck his hand out. House glanced down, looked back at Foreman's face, and then grudgingly shook the proffered hand.

"Try to be less of an asshole when you get out."

"I don't think there's a rehab for that," Wilson muttered.

They were three steps out the door before Cuddy's voice stopped them.

"I know why you're doing this," she said to House in a low voice as she approached. "And I think it's sweet."

"Yeah, not going to prison is the sweetest thing _ever_," House sneered.

Cuddy smiled, a little smugly, and walked away without another word.

They walked toward the elevator. "You don't trust me to take care of your rat?" Wilson asked.

"Hey, you get to have me -- I had to give Cameron something."

"Ah, so you were just being equitable."

"You know me," House answered. "Always a diplomat."

Wilson pushed the button and they waited in companionable silence. When they stepped into empty elevator a few moments later, he glanced at House and simpered, "I think what you're doing is sweet, too."

House pushed the elevator button with his cane with a bit more force than necessary. "Oh, shut up."

* * *

There was a navy blue duffle bag on the bed, packed with House's clothes, which he'd scrunched and rolled into wads. Wilson cringed, but wrinkles probably weren't a major concern in rehab. On top of the pile of clothes sat a new portable DVD player.

"When did you get this?" Wilson called to House, who was puttering around in the living room, probably up to no good.

"Today," House called back. "Going away present from the kids. Or wedding gift, maybe. That would explain the horrifying card they bought to go with it." Wilson glanced up when House poked his head through the bedroom doorway. "Anyway, it's mine and you can't have it."

"Well, I hate to break your possessive little heart, but you're not supposed to bring expensive electronics to rehab. You'll never believe it, but there are drug addicts there."

House dropped his jaw and pretended to be shocked.

Wilson turned his attention back to the bag. "What else do you have in here?" he wondered aloud as he poked through balled-up t-shirts, producing an iPod, a can of Pringles, and --

"House, what ...?" He pulled his own gray McGill sweatshirt out of the bag and held it up questioningly.

"Oh, is that yours? Sorry, but if it's in my drawer, it's my shirt now."

"There's no way this would fit you. It barely fits me. I've had it since I was seventeen --"

"So?" House said, his eyes just daring Wilson to comment. "Maybe that's why I want it."

Wilson considered that. Then he carefully folded the sweatshirt and put it back in the bag. "Okay, but leave the expensive stuff here." He looked up, waiting for the smart-ass retort, but House was quiet.

Wilson placed his open palm on the sweatshirt, feeling the heat from his hand transfer to the worn fabric, wishing he had some way to keep it warm for the next eight weeks. "It's not going to be easy," he murmured.

"Never said it would be."

"But it's only two months. I'll visit. It's no problem for me to visit."

House was silent. Wilson took a deep breath and crossed the room until House was in his arms, warm and alive.

"Conjugal visits?" House murmured hopefully into his ear.

"It's rehab, not prison. I don't think they do conjugal visits."

"Then you'd better get your ass to bed, because if I have to live like a monk for two months, I'll need to store up a lot tonight."

House's kiss was surprisingly soft at first; unexpectedly tender, but a moment later he pressed forward, lips and tongue seeking more heat. Wilson opened his mouth wider and kissed back, meeting House touch for touch and breath for breath -- and yeah, after having this for just a week, two months without it was going to be a slow torture. On the other hand, it could have been a lot worse.

"It worked," Wilson mumbled when they pulled apart.

"Beg your pardon?"

"The civil union -- it worked. It kept you out of jail just like it was supposed to, because it got us here -- and if we hadn't done this, would you have taken that second deal?"

House was skeptical. "I think Howard might have had just a little bit to do with keeping me out of jail and getting them to offer another deal."

"He helped," Wilson said, trying not to smile. He thought he made a good point. Without the civil union charade, they might never have gotten here. House would never have traded dependency for human relationships, self-destruction for the possibility of genuine happiness.

All it had taken was a felony, a night in jail, and a sham marriage to save House's ass that became a real marriage that was saving everything.

"Actually," Wilson said, "in a way, Tritter is responsible for all of this, including us getting together. Maybe you should thank him."

"I'll send him a fruit basket," House muttered against Wilson's neck while struggling to unfasten his pants.

Then again, nobody had ever said that life with House was going to be easy. Or mundane.

Wilson wouldn't have had it any other way.


End file.
